Don't make me a plaque on the wall

Our church of St. Jude's has a few brass plaques adorning its walls. Over the last year we have been thinking about having one done for Ben. But last week during church I was looking at them and reading them. I reflected on what the plaques make me think about; oldness, sadness, loss. And about stillness and silence.

It was then that I thought that Ben would not want people to feel or think that way about him. He probably couldn't care less about any of it where he is now, but if I think about who he was here, he would want to be remembered as strong and energetic; he didn't want his friends to see him as he grew sicker and sicker.

And as the months and years go by he is still 23 (forever 23-isn't that what everyone wants?) And sometimes on those mornings when the sky is deep blue and the smell of summer is in the air and we have to head off to school and work, we can't hold him back from the beach: He's taken a car and he's off for the day, surf sand and sun.

Or on those mornings when the sun is pale and the air is snap freezing we know he's already off to the snow challenging the dizzying slopes of Mendoza with skis or snowboard.

And my thoughts return to the church walls and "Edith. Aged 74. Loved by her family. Rest in peace." and I wonder whether it's too tame to put him in brass next to Edith who is probably enjoying resting in peace when Ben is surely not doing any such thing but rather journeying to the sun and exploring the universe.

The vase

There once lived a family who felt they had been especially blessed, as they were all healthy and felt very secure in God's love for them and their love for each other.

On the mantelpiece above the fireplace in their living room, stood a vase. It was a strong, sturdy vase, attractive but not extravagant and had been a wedding gift years before.

It was a symbol of their family and had withstood the bumps of moving and toddlers' antics, just as the family had withstood the bumps and ordeals of life. Scars and chips could be detected, but only on very close scrutiny.

The day the oldest son in the family died, the vase was found on the mantelpiece, shattered into many pieces. Noone had the strength or desire to bother gathering up the pieces and it was left for a long, long time in its broken condition.

Eventually thought was given to putting the vase back together again. Little enthusiasm could be generated but eventually the task was begun.

The family worked together, each adding a piece or suggesting how to proceed. Each of the family members got discouraged and more than once, one or other of them was heard to say "It can't be done."

Finally after many months of working on it, the vase was back in its normal place. To the casual observer, it looked strong and sturdy and noone would have guessed it was less than perfect. However, on closer examination, it obviously had been shattered then put back together and on turning it around, it could be seen that one large piece was permanently missing.

This piece was never found and so the vase continued to symbolize the reality of the family; although their hearts might appear mended, their lives would never be the same again.

By Jeanette Isley. From the Newsletter of the Bereaved Parents USA

Marathon memories

Three years ago, on Sunday October 10, 2008 at around midday the humble but furiously enthusiastic Mulherin Marathon Support Crew could be seen at the front of a crowd of other furiously enthusiastic support crews, about 1km from the MCG and the finish of the Melbourne Marathon. We were waiting for Chris, Andy and I think Stu and Dan (two friends).

As we waited, watched and cheered the runners on, Ben was sending periodic texts of inquiry from his hospital bed like this one:

“Well done guys, solid effort. Hope you’re all happy.”

He was sick and had begun the last couple of months of roller-coasting predictions about his prognosis and increasingly nightmarish experiences with chemotherapy and surgery and had texted prior to the race;

“Haven’t slept…blood is a hassle…canula for IV has to be changed every 48.”

If memory serves me correctly, he had been planning to run that 2008 Melbourne Marathon with Chris and Andy and his friends before he got sick in the June.

Traralgon 2004

He had run two marathons previously - one with Chris and one with Andy who was running the 10km alongside them both. Ben was 18 when he did the Traralgon marathon.

Today Matt, Tim and I formed the cheer squad for Chris who ran the 42km with an unlikely yellow helium balloon bobbing up and down behind him on a tall thin stick, advertising that he was a “pacer” for people wanting to finish in 4 hours 30 minutes. This year Andy opted to don a fluoro vest, ear piece and walkie talkie in order to be a bike-riding official for the half-marathon leaders.

My thoughts today returned often to the marathon of three years ago and I found myself in that same surreal head space I find myself in so often; “Surely it can’t be true. Surely it didn’t happen. Surely he got better...” And on it goes.