Over the course of a week, I heard of two deaths that really bothered me. One was the brother of a former student, the other a great friend's grandmother. This stirs all sorts of feelings and thoughts, as death seems to do. But the real beast of it is that I've not said hardly anything to those who lost.
My dad died when I was four. Throughout high school and the early part of college, I was crumpled if I thought about it for more that .3 seconds. I know the sorrow that death brings, that insensitive, numbing lukewarm feeling that wraps around the body and suffocates. I often told myself that one reason my dad died was so I could help others who faced something similar. But I haven't.
All of a sudden I'm loaded with an insecurity, a lack of confidence about what to say when I know that often, people don't want to hear anything. They want to know that somebody is praying, loving, being a safety net in the event that they need to gush.
I need to suck it up.
On a totally different note, I heard somebody call Shihan a bad mamma jamma yesterday...and he was serious.
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