After living my entire life in a larger city, I now live in a much smaller community.  The pace here is slower, gridlock traffic is a memory, and the dust from nearby farms paints the sunsets in spectacular deep shades of orange and red.

Living here, I’ve learned that friendly conversations with strangers are a normal part of life and no one stays a stranger for long.  I didn’t know I was missing that in my life until I experienced it.

On main street there is a gas station, a few places to eat, and a pharmacy.  One day I found myself in the Subway sandwich shop during lunch.  There were a few people in line in front of me, most notably, two Working Men and a mom and her young son.

The Working Men looked as if they had been working outside for some time, perhaps since sun rise on a nearby farm or something similar.  One of the men wore a dusty straw cowboy hat, a plaid shirt with silver snaps, jeans, and dirt covered cowboy boots.  My eyes were immediately drawn to him because he reminded me of a younger version of my Dad.   Standing a few feet back from him was a mother and a son waiting for their turn to order.

The little boy was maybe 7 or 8.  He stood there, head tilted back, his gaze riveted to the man in front of him.  Each question the man was asked about his sandwich was answered with a “Yes, ma’am” or a “No, ma’am” and when it was done, a “thank you, ma’am”.  The Little Man watched the conversation back and forth, eyes wide, ears open, an expression of awe on his face.

I watched, too.

I wondered if the Working Man had any idea how his simple lunch order was affecting the Little Man behind him, whose undivided attention he had captured.  While he ordered his sandwich, he was showing him simple things by example: how to hold himself, how to look someone in the eyes, how to be a gentleman, how to be polite, how to express thanks. 

As the scene played out before me, it reminded me that the children are always watching.  

When that thought crossed my mind, my thoughts rewound over a decade to a phone call where a doctor was telling me my Dad was entering his final days.  I was asking questions of the Doctor who had delivered the news to Dad the day before.  After he answered all of them, I asked him if there was a question I should have asked but didn’t.  He began talking about stress and families, and how stress sometimes makes people act out of character.  I was confused until it finally registered what he was so delicately trying to say.   I assured him that there would be no drama in our family and that we would all be behaving honorably toward my Dad and each other.  He blew out a breath and told me that was not always the case and that families sometimes lose their way in times like these.

As I talked with the Doctor about the new painful path we found ourselves on, I thought about my then teenaged sons.  “My sons will be watching” was one of the first thoughts that landed in my soul.  How could they not be watching during this life changing event?  And what would I be showing them?

I had never lost a parent.  I did not know how to navigate the road I found myself on, but I decided then and there I would be transparent about the journey. I stepped outside my upbringing of “stiff upper lip” combined with “never let them see you cry” and decided I was not going to hide. 

I was not going to hide or diminish my tears, my grief, or my regrets.  Because let’s face it, often Regret boldly takes up two chairs at the table in times such as these.  I could do nothing to change the journey we were on, but I could do something about teaching my sons how to navigate life. 

So, I answered their questions, and I let them see my grief.  I didn’t try to hide my tears shed on the couch while pretending to watch TV.  I kept no secrets; I told them no lies. Not even little white ones that maybe would have made me feel better.  As I shed tears, I encouraged them it was OK for them to shed their own.  I gathered photos and reminisced about them.   I wore my Dad’s 1970’s-era chunky chain link bracelet for weeks and told them why.  I asked them to be pall bearers, bought them new dress coats for the winter burial, and hugged them tight.  Hopefully they got glimpses of my faith along the way.    

The hardest thing I’d ever done was to say goodbye to Dad.  And I hope by being transparent in our journey, I passed something on to my sons about how to walk a difficult path, even as I learned myself each step of the way. 

After all, my Sons were watching.

Fast forward several years and my sons had now lost 3 grandparents- my Dad, my Mom, and my Stepmother.  Now, they were losing a 4^th– my husband’s Mom.  Her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren were all scattered in the pews in the dim, quiet lighting of the sanctuary before the service.  As a photographer I see so much of my surroundings as pictures, like they are framed in camera.   

As my eyes drifted over the pews I saw my Father in law, sitting sideways in a pew about halfway back.  He was looking at his Big Brother in the pew behind him as they spoke quietly. Both men are in their 90’s. My gaze was riveted to them just as that Little Man’s gaze clung to the Working Man in the sandwich shop.  I could not hear what they were saying; I didn’t need to.  Whatever their words were, I thought how comforting it must be to sit in such a life-changing moment with the one person in the room who has known you the longest- quite literally your entire life.  I didn’t need to take that photograph of them quietly talking, it is burned into my memory. 

In my 50’s, I was now the child watching the man I now call Dad.

Perhaps everyone younger in the room was watching someone older, learning how to navigate hard things.  Or, maybe its just me?  Either way, I could not imagine, as my friend says, waking up that morning with one half of my soul missing.   How do you do that?

As I watched, Dad showed us all during those days how to walk that hard path of losing a spouse.  He is the leader of our family, and we helped when we could, but he lead by example.  He showed us how to be a person of faith when your life completely changes.  He showed us how to walk in faith, to live in grace, how to smile at memories.  He showed love and compassion to himself and to us.  When no one would blame him for staying behind, he bundled up and went to the grave site in the extreme cold of negative windchills, to see his wife to her final resting place.  He did the hard things, and then he did the next hard thing.  And, then he did the next.  He showed us the way.

And, through it all, we watched and we learned and we love him all the more.

Later, I took the Little Brother and the Big Brother’s photo.  Big Brother had to travel several hours by car to come to the funeral, and I suspect the trip was a hard one for him.  More lessons on sacrificial love, how to show up and be present for those we love, even when it’s hard.

I think sometimes we are the teacher and sometimes we are the student in this thing called life.  Perhaps it’s good to refocus on that responsibility, to look up from the phone, to make eye contact, to wave, to offer someone the kindness of a smile and our attention, to make others feel seen.  Whether it’s someone we love, or someone we don’t even know, every ounce of kindness, compassion, gentleness, patience, or friendliness we show (or don’t show), is seen and absorbed and remembered by someone, whether that be a Little Man, Young Men, or an Older Daughter.

Someone is always watching. 

May we all live an example worthy of their gaze.

 ^“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.”

-Paul, an apostle sent by Jesus Christ, Galatians 5:22-23a, NIV