On being known

and those who bear witness to your life

I was at a funeral last month, which is not the most hopeful way to start a hope-filled story, but alas, that is where I was and so that is where we begin. Sometimes you attend a funeral because you knew the one who passed, sometimes you attend simply to support the ones left living. This funeral was the latter for me. I am a member of a very tight-knit group of friends from highschool that have found ourselves cemented together through a series of parental deaths that doesn’t quite seem possible. Four of the five of us lost a parent while pregnant with our first child.

Yep, that happened. Four times in a row.

Two of us, are adult orphans, two of us are the defacto matriarchs of our family (I am three for three of the above categories). And then we have our one lone soldier who reminds us that sometimes your parents get to age like normal and death isn’t woven into every story. Going through those kinds of fires, over and over again (and the early parental passings are just a fraction of what we have collected weathered) forges a deep, unbreakable connection. So, when another tragedy occurs, we rally. We show up. And that is what we did last month.

We were lingering at the wake, having conversations that would feel normal were it not for the casket in the corner of the room…how are your kids, what are you working on, have you heard about so and so. Within that context, one of my dear friends casually mentioned how it had made sense that I was once a history teacher because, “Jess has always loved history.”

That comment stopped me dead in my tracks. She was talking about the high-school me. And in that casual way that someone who really knows something can do, she just offered up the observation matter of factly. The thing is, in all my years of studying history in college, teaching history, writing about history, I have never once thought about the fact that I had been that way all along. She was holding a mirror up to me and without even thinking offered up that most magical of moments. “There you are. You’ve been there this whole time. It’s you.”

One of the many tragedies of having so much of my family gone is that I have lost the witnesses to my life. And while there is so much to say about knowing yourself, there is also much to say about being known. And there in that funeral home, a little piece of myself was handed back to me.

Two weeks ago I was rummaging around in my garden when my 12-year-old came outside looking for me. I heard him call my name so I popped out from the garden corner. He asked me something-probably if I would order more chips-and then turned to make his way back into the house. He took a few steps, looked back at me, and said, “I am really glad you got the garden going. You do so much around here. But gardening is work you do for you-ya know? Work that’s not work. Gardening is like that for you. And writing a book. Are you doing that again soon?”

I stood there, mouth agape. After a moment to catch my breath I said, “Actually I am starting work on the next book in a couple of weeks.”

“Good,” he replied. And headed back inside as if he hadn’t just unleashed a barrel full of wisdom. So casual, so unassuming. It reminded me of my friend’s comment just a week or so prior.

Known. I felt it so deeply in my bones. And the two incidents combined really got me thinking. Not so much about the beauty of being known but instead about the stories we tell ourselves.

For me, this story of losing all my witnesses. It’s true. But also, it’s not true. I wonder if in recognizing this I am a bit more known to myself.

My newest book, Peace in the Dark is available wherever books are sold. Might I suggest supporting an independent bookstore such as nooks You can pickup my other books Life Surrendered or Break Bread Together Available wherever books are sold: Amazon | Leafwood