On June 14, 2011, Owl City released his third studio album, "All Things Bright and Beautiful."
I fell in love with it immediately and listened to it on a daily basis.
12 hours after I purchased this album, my dad got a phone call from my aunt saying that their dad was being taken to the hospital because he was having trouble breathing.
I was at the church working on a project for the youth basement, listening to Owl City.
On June 20, 2011, my life changed forever.
My dad's dad, my Grandpa Swanson, died.
It was widely considered a blessing. He had been living for fifteen years with the effects of multiple strokes, along with various other health concerns.
His mobility was limited, his speech was slurred.
His wit, wisdom, humor, and driving skills, however, were unchanged.
Nor was his love for Jesus, and that was without question.
My parents had left that morning to take my grandma back to Illinois.
She had been staying with us that weekend.
I got a text from my mom while I was working, telling me to pray because things weren't going well.
A few hours later I got a call from Dad: "It will be today for Grandpa."
Mom called Andrew with the same message.
He was at rehearsal with the band.
I did what I often do when I am faced with a stressful situation.
I started baking.
"Don't let it hurt."
Andrew came home.
Dad called.
That was that.
There were no words. There were hardly more tears in that moment.
The cookies burned.
Andrew went back to rehearsal; I went to the mall.
I wandered around numbly. I went to Starbucks and was sorely tempted to tell the barista (who I know) what was going on. I didn't. We're not that close. I ended up at Target to buy a black dress.
"Blessings" by Laura Story played as I drove home.
Of course.
Andrew and I went out to dinner and then went back home.
He asked whether I had gotten the new Owl City album.
We plugged in Dad's speakers and blasted it as loud as we could take it.
I folded clothes.
We waited for Mom and Dad to get home.
I painted my nails.
We all sat around for a while, talking about the next few days.
We would leave the following evening, have dinner at Andrew and Allie's apartment.
I would stay the night there, less than two weeks after staying with them before the last time we would all be together as a family.
The viewing would be on Wednesday, funeral Thursday, Andrew would fly to Texas, drive to Wisconsin on Friday, traditional Wisconsin fireworks, graveside service on Saturday at the cemetery where relatives from several generations are buried, drive back to IL Saturday night, drive home on Sunday.
Owl City was the soundtrack for all of this.
I had four albums of his music on my iPod at the time, and it was what I listened to.
For that week and for the rest of the summer.
And now, ATBAB brings back the feelings of the summer.
It is a numbness mixed with sorrow and anger and hopeless crushes and Harry Potter movie marathons and frustration and warmth and bitterness.
I listened to this album last night while I was in Shiloh Prayer Chapel.
I finally really listened to "How I Became the Sea."
I had heard this song dozens of times, but didn't really try to understand or interpret it to apply to my life.
But, with nothing else going on around me, I finally made the effort.
"The great breakers broke again as I nodded off inside."
I don't know what Adam Young was thinking when he wrote this song.
I don't know whether he meant something deep or significant by it.
But, because I can interpret just about anything in the way I want to understand it, I take great meaning from this line.
After June 20, 2011, I deadened myself to emotion.
I decided that I did not want to feel joy or sorrow or anything in between.
I felt entitled to my perpetually bad attitude.
And I let it continue through last semester, until I finally broke down and admitted that I was mad at God.
I gave Him the list of grievances that I had been holding on to for six months.
"When the sky fell in, when the hurricanes came for me, I could finally crash again, and that's how I became the sea."
I couldn't hold onto it any more.
It was not my pain to hold. It was His to take and turn into something beautiful.
And He is.
But it still hurts. Listening to ATBAB last night was difficult. I usually avoid listening to the whole album at once. I have "Honey and the Bee," "The Yacht Club," and "Deer in the Headlights" in various playlists.
But why would I want to hear the "slipped the surly bonds of earth" speech? I was avoiding thinking of my grandfather's death, thanks. I'd rather not hear about more death.
I've thought I was over it.
I have thought that it would eventually stop hurting, but I don't know that it will.
Every time I see the photos from my brother's wedding with my smiling grandparents and remember that I won't have those photos.
Every time I see their card from their last Christmas together.
Every time I play the song I wrote a few years ago and played at the funeral.
Every time I listen to ATBAB.
It hurts. It will hurt.
But he doesn't hurt. He doesn't need assistance to walk or for people to listen patiently and quietly while he forms words.
He is dancing at the throne of God.
("But he was a Baptist! He wouldn't dance." Yes, my dad and I both had that response when my mom said that Grandpa was dancing. This is how we think.)
He is with his granddaughter, his parents, his brothers, and his Savior.
"And that's how I became the sea."
I fell in love with it immediately and listened to it on a daily basis.
12 hours after I purchased this album, my dad got a phone call from my aunt saying that their dad was being taken to the hospital because he was having trouble breathing.
I was at the church working on a project for the youth basement, listening to Owl City.
On June 20, 2011, my life changed forever.
My dad's dad, my Grandpa Swanson, died.
It was widely considered a blessing. He had been living for fifteen years with the effects of multiple strokes, along with various other health concerns.
His mobility was limited, his speech was slurred.
His wit, wisdom, humor, and driving skills, however, were unchanged.
Nor was his love for Jesus, and that was without question.
My parents had left that morning to take my grandma back to Illinois.
She had been staying with us that weekend.
I got a text from my mom while I was working, telling me to pray because things weren't going well.
A few hours later I got a call from Dad: "It will be today for Grandpa."
Mom called Andrew with the same message.
He was at rehearsal with the band.
I did what I often do when I am faced with a stressful situation.
I started baking.
"Don't let it hurt."
Andrew came home.
Dad called.
That was that.
There were no words. There were hardly more tears in that moment.
The cookies burned.
Andrew went back to rehearsal; I went to the mall.
I wandered around numbly. I went to Starbucks and was sorely tempted to tell the barista (who I know) what was going on. I didn't. We're not that close. I ended up at Target to buy a black dress.
"Blessings" by Laura Story played as I drove home.
Of course.
Andrew and I went out to dinner and then went back home.
He asked whether I had gotten the new Owl City album.
We plugged in Dad's speakers and blasted it as loud as we could take it.
I folded clothes.
We waited for Mom and Dad to get home.
I painted my nails.
We all sat around for a while, talking about the next few days.
We would leave the following evening, have dinner at Andrew and Allie's apartment.
I would stay the night there, less than two weeks after staying with them before the last time we would all be together as a family.
The viewing would be on Wednesday, funeral Thursday, Andrew would fly to Texas, drive to Wisconsin on Friday, traditional Wisconsin fireworks, graveside service on Saturday at the cemetery where relatives from several generations are buried, drive back to IL Saturday night, drive home on Sunday.
Owl City was the soundtrack for all of this.
I had four albums of his music on my iPod at the time, and it was what I listened to.
For that week and for the rest of the summer.
And now, ATBAB brings back the feelings of the summer.
It is a numbness mixed with sorrow and anger and hopeless crushes and Harry Potter movie marathons and frustration and warmth and bitterness.
I listened to this album last night while I was in Shiloh Prayer Chapel.
I finally really listened to "How I Became the Sea."
I had heard this song dozens of times, but didn't really try to understand or interpret it to apply to my life.
But, with nothing else going on around me, I finally made the effort.
"The great breakers broke again as I nodded off inside."
I don't know what Adam Young was thinking when he wrote this song.
I don't know whether he meant something deep or significant by it.
But, because I can interpret just about anything in the way I want to understand it, I take great meaning from this line.
After June 20, 2011, I deadened myself to emotion.
I decided that I did not want to feel joy or sorrow or anything in between.
I felt entitled to my perpetually bad attitude.
And I let it continue through last semester, until I finally broke down and admitted that I was mad at God.
I gave Him the list of grievances that I had been holding on to for six months.
"When the sky fell in, when the hurricanes came for me, I could finally crash again, and that's how I became the sea."
I couldn't hold onto it any more.
It was not my pain to hold. It was His to take and turn into something beautiful.
And He is.
But it still hurts. Listening to ATBAB last night was difficult. I usually avoid listening to the whole album at once. I have "Honey and the Bee," "The Yacht Club," and "Deer in the Headlights" in various playlists.
But why would I want to hear the "slipped the surly bonds of earth" speech? I was avoiding thinking of my grandfather's death, thanks. I'd rather not hear about more death.
I've thought I was over it.
I have thought that it would eventually stop hurting, but I don't know that it will.
Every time I see the photos from my brother's wedding with my smiling grandparents and remember that I won't have those photos.
Every time I see their card from their last Christmas together.
Every time I play the song I wrote a few years ago and played at the funeral.
Every time I listen to ATBAB.
It hurts. It will hurt.
But he doesn't hurt. He doesn't need assistance to walk or for people to listen patiently and quietly while he forms words.
He is dancing at the throne of God.
("But he was a Baptist! He wouldn't dance." Yes, my dad and I both had that response when my mom said that Grandpa was dancing. This is how we think.)
He is with his granddaughter, his parents, his brothers, and his Savior.
"And that's how I became the sea."
2 comments:
When I get done weeping on the sofa I might write a more well constructed comment on this. Or maybe not. Thanks for writing this, though, it reminds me again how much I love you, and how thankful I am that God put you in our family. I love you Hopey.
Your dear heart and words on paper seem to meld more and more into one single entity...beautifully said, Hope.
Post a Comment