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Celebrating Life

I wrote and named this poem for my Principal shortly after I returned to work after my diagnosis in 1993. I tried to capture my thoughts about God’s role in life, patience and ultimate acceptance. I hope he recalled it years later, when it was his turn to die. I hope that it brought him peace.

L’Chaim

Look! See the gossamer threads of our life sway to and fro.

They dance with the winds of fate. Sinuous wisps of ourselves:

writhing in unrehearsed undulation. Mystical and incomprehensible, they swirl about.

Introspectively, we strain to see their meaning.

We view them in a moment, a frozen frame. But, this very act errantly halts the procession. Peering into time, stuccoed and fixed, the strands lose their fluid rhythm.

Thus exposed, we can see only a tangled web of life’s travail. Painful and disparate.

Fear not…….but take heart.

This Gordian knot is but a moment’s twist of our gossamer threads.

The MASTER is working the loom, weaving the threads.

With patterns unfolding, it will become the beautiful mosaic of our LIFE.

Err not then! Look not and see only bare strands.

Look beyond, transcend the moment.

See the dance of the gossamer threads: beauty, harmony, and peace

In His time the weave will reveal its design; Clarity prevails and serenity abides.

Besides Christine (and of course, my mental health therapist, Dr. Philip Melnekoff), Gary was my closest confident. I met him when he became my supervisor as the Director of Special Services in our school district in the late 80’s. We were nothing alike physically. He was slender and slightly built. Gary was an impeccable dresser, usually sporting a jacket and tie. Most often, I was in jeans and maybe a flannel shirt. The only characteristic we shared were our beards. Even then, his black one was neatly cropped short while my reddish-brown one was long and wild - more like a mountain man than an administrator.

We were the same age and shared similar educational values. I liked him a lot. We clicked and worked well together. Dr. Burns, his official title, received an appointment as Principal of my school several years afterward. Working every day together, we grew closer.

His support during my long process of diagnosis was encouraging and helpful. When the crushing news of my diagnosis came, he became a rock for me.

“Take as much time as you need, Chris, everything will be taken care of for you,” he told me over the phone.

I sobbed back, “Thank you, Gary.”

In two days after finding out, I wanted to return to work. It was a diversion from reality. I loved my work and it was a joy to be with my kids. My return was emotional. Everyone knew my fate. It must have been a heartbreaking scene for everyone. A beloved teacher comes back for his final hurrah. He was going down fighting.

I bravely entered back into reality going back days after receiving my diagnosis of ALS, aka Lou Gehrig’s disease. I went directly to the office.

Gary and I hugged tight and long. I cried in his arms, “I didn’t want this,”

“Nor did I. What will you do?” he asked.

“I’ll teach,” I responded.

“Are you sure that’s what you want to do,” he continued to question.

A flash went through me. Not normally an outspoken or presumptuous man, I said something quite out of character.

“Before I got sick, I taught about living.” I said to him. “Now, I will teach about how to die.”

He looked at me shaking his head in agreement. Gary knew me well. He understood my point.

“There are no lesson plans written for this unit, so don’t be looking for one during my yearly observation and evaluation,” I said with a sardonic smile. “I’ll have to improvise and figure it out as I go.”

With Gary’s help, I taught through my growing disabilities. He facilitated every modification I required to enable me to continue teaching. He was an ardent supporter of my first Ride to Washington in ’98. I could not ask for anything more from a boss.

Tragically, Gary developed cancer over that summer. Gary did not return in the fall; he was too sick. He did not respond to treatment. The disease traveled at warp speed. In a cruel turn of events, we both became Dead Men Walking.

His disease progressed fast. I now became his encourager. I visited him in the hospital hours before he died. I think of him often and with grateful fondness.

The lesson I learned from this was life must not be viewed in isolation or in a narrow slice. By doing so a distorted image is created. If a circle were examined closely, it appears to be a series of random straight lines. To get the true image, one must step back and view it in its entirety. Only then does the true design reveal itself. The same is true with life.