Closing the Gap Between What You Say and What People Hear

Wonderful, Beautiful

I met my wife, Margret, in the Fall of 1987, waiting tables in an Italian restaurant in downtown Minneapolis. I was 28, she was 22, and we were both somewhat adrift at the time, though me much more so than her. I was just coming off of ten years playing rock and roll across the upper midwest, and had no idea what I was going to do next. She had just finished college, and, though she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do either, she was at least drifting amongst good options. (She entered medical school two years later.)

The point is, when Margret first introduced me to her folks, I can’t imagine they were too thrilled. I mean, I’m sure I was nice and upbeat and all that. But still, a musician? For their little girl? (Margret is the youngest of seven.) Honestly, it must have sent shivers down their spines. But if it did, they never let me know. From the very first day, Joyce and Jim welcomed me into their family, and have shown me nothing but kindness and respect ever since.

In recent years, Joyce has taken to referring to her children and grandchildren as “Wonderful, beautiful.” She’ll write in birthday cards, “To wonderful, beautiful Peter!” And tell them in person: “Hello, you wonderful, beautiful child!” I must confess that it seems a little over-the-top to me at times, but I can be something of a party-pooper, too, so pay me no mind. The truth is, it’s sweet and sincere, and the kids love her, as does everyone in her life. Or, to be technically correct, I should say, “as did everyone in her life.” Joyce passed away this last weekend.

Joyce Lenarz was 86 years old, the mother of seven children, and had just celebrated her 60th wedding anniversary. She died at home after a hospice period in which her family was able to provide round-the-clock care right up to the end.

I’m thankful to Joyce for many things, number one being welcoming me into the family in the first place. And what a family it is! As I first got to know the them, I used to joke that they were the Von Trapp’s from The Sound of Music—and the joke wasn’t that far off. Two strong, supportive parents; seven genuinely nice and loving children who got along with and cared about each other. The family would even sing together—in three-part harmony—as they cleaned up after meals. (See what I mean?)

Now, no family is without its tensions and conflicts. And my Von Trapp jokes used to irritate Margret, I think for that very reason. But still, one of the greatest good fortunes in my life has been to find myself a member of Jim and Joyce’s family. I’ll be forever grateful to them for making it so effortless.

The second thing I’m thankful to Joyce for came as something of a surprise to me: The chance to experience the beauty of a dignified death. You hear about it, but to see it for yourself is an inspiration. Which is not to say it wasn’t difficult, because of course it was. But so is birth, as well as much of life itself. Joyce’s process, as well as the way the family embraced and supported the process, was truly beautiful to me—and important. I’m sure the rest of my life will be better for having been a part of it.

Finally, I was reminded of the importance of having conversations while we still can. As well as Joyce’s passing went, I also imagine it left some unresolved issues and regrets. How could it not? Can every problem we have with others be resolved before we go? I don’t suppose so. But it seems to me much better to have tried and come up short than to have avoided it until it’s truly too late. In any case, the reminder gives me a new opportunity to test the theory—and I will.

So, for that, and all the rest, thank you, wonderful, beautiful Joyce. You’ve made a real difference in my life. You will be missed.

How about you? Any conversations you would regret not having if it got to be too late? As you head into the holidays and find yourself passing the peas to Uncle Hank, who’s always busting your chops, or cousin Cindy, who just can’t keep her nose out of other people’s business, take a breath and think about it. If so, lighten up, open up, and find a way to have the conversation. It doesn’t have to be today, but do try to do it while you still can.

Tags: Communication, david levin, Don't Just Talk

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 24th, 2009 at 2:23 pm and is filed under Communication, Life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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