“We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is
needed? Help,” he said, “is giving part of yourself to somebody who comes to
accept it willingly and needs it badly. So it is, that we can seldom help
anybody. Either we don’t know what part to give or maybe we don’t like to give
any part of ourselves. Then, more often than not, the part that is needed is
not wanted. And even more often, we do not have the part that is needed. It is
like the auto-supply shop over town where they always, say, ‘Sorry, we are just
out of that part.’”
I had a conversation with a friend recently wherein I felt
absolutely helpless to help him. He reminded me of Paul Maclean in the story, A River Runs Through It, by Norman
Maclean.
In that story, Paul is the younger of two brothers. He is
wild and untethered—free as a bird, popular, and a very big fish in a very
small pond.
Except… he isn’t wild and free. He is tethered to the depth
of his own pain, to his sense of unworthiness and his tendency towards heeding
the call of spirits, gambling, and showing the world just how tough he really
was. He was feisty and stubborn, to say the least.
Norman is the square older brother who follows the rules. He’s
the writer—the one who tells stories on paper, the one who goes away to
college, the one who seems… quieter. Not as shiny. More sensible, and therefore
more boring.
I have always felt a deep connection to the story. To the
lyrical turn of phrase in Maclean’s writing, to the sentiment behind loving
family without fully understanding them, to feeling constantly misunderstood
and under-estimated.
I watched the movie version of this story today, in hopes of finding a
deeper understanding of what my friend is currently going through, or possibly
a different way to connect with him that might be more helpful.
Instead, I found myself in a pile of tears as I realized
another layer of understanding of my own family, my own sister, and my own
appointed role in it all.
It hit me that Wendy was much like Paul. She defied the
rules of our parents with a ferocity and unapologetic glee that I rarely see
depicted in books or on screen. And I, of course, am like Norman...
In one scene of the movie, Paul, Norman, their mother, and
their father (a preacher, played by Tom Skerritt) are sitting around the dinner
table. They all turn to Paul and ask him to tell a story. Instantly, my mind
flashed back to the tales Wendy used to tell—dramas about her kids, her man,
her work. Or maybe something about the fire chief, a fire the community rushed
to put out, or maybe another story about another animal that had found her.
I watched through blurry vision from my tears as Paul
stammered, searching his memory for a story to tell.
Quietly, Norman says, “I’ve got a story.”
Three pairs of eyes turn to him, and he softly says that he’d
been offered a professorship at the University of Chicago. A moment of deep
pride shown on his face as for once—Norman took the spotlight in his own
family.
The camera pans to Paul (played by Brad Pitt).
The look of pain and unworthiness in his eyes is incongruent
with the loving smile that has crept across his face: a genuine mix of
disappointment in himself and pride for his brother’s hard work and good
fortune.
I know that look.
I know it all too well.
But there is another layer to this story.
Towards the end of the movie, Paul, Norman, and their father
go fly fishing. Norman and the preacher sit high on the banks, tired from
catching their own trout, as they watch Paul scope out the river and finally
spot a fish he wants to try and capture.
They watch in silent awe as Paul artfully sweeps the fishing
line out across the water. It lands inches away from the fish, and it latches
on—taking Paul for quite the ride down the sharp rocks and rushing waters of
the Big Blackfoot River. That fish is so big, so strong, that it’s all Paul can
do to simply hold on to the line as he’s whisked downstream.
Eventually, the water calms, and Paul comes up for air. He captures
the fish, reels it in, and proudly holds onto it as Norman and their father
look on with amazement.
Norman narrates, “At that moment, I knew, surely and
clearly, that I was witnessing perfection. My brother stood before us, not on
the bank of the Big Blackfoot River, but suspended above the earth, free from
all its laws, like a work of art. And I knew just as surely, just as clearly,
that life is not a work of art and that the moment could not last.”
Soon after that perfect moment, Paul was killed.
“Do you think I could have helped him?” he asked.
“Do you think I could have helped him?” I answered.
We stood waiting in deference to each other. How can a
question be answered that asks a lifetime of questions?
(I have asked myself that question about my sister. I know my dad has, too.)
I was fortunate to witness my sister's perfection.
I saw the way she fell head over heels in love with
motherhood. Not with her older children, but in her later years, when she had
Kasey. I’d never seen such awe, such patience, and such flowing love in my
sister as I did when Kasey came into our lives.
My sister’s perfection was a bright shining beacon in that
brief time. She had darkness. She had pain. But Kasey opened her heart in a way
she’d never been open before, and when that happened, I knew I was witnessing
magic. And that magical love spilled over onto her other children, as she realized, perhaps for the first time, that these beings had shaped her, changed her, and defined her in the best possible ways.
I’ve been missing Wendy a lot lately. I realized earlier
this weekend that I can’t quite remember the exact color of her eyes, and what
they looked like. I can see them in pictures, of course—but when I close my
eyes and picture her face… the details have started to fade.
I miss my family.
And I often feel like I’m supposed to live this huge life to
make up for my mom’s and sister’s lives being clipped so short. As if I owe them, or my family, or myself, or
some other entity, or all of the above, because I’m still here.
I know that isn’t logical.
But grief never is…
“It is those we live with and love and should know who elude
us.”
“…you can love completely without complete understanding.”
