Here comes another one

The 24th of July marks the 5-month mark of my nephew’s death from his third round of cancer. The first took Nolan’s leg below the knee before he was a year old, the second his hair and a lot of time to and from doctors, the third a clear passageway to his lungs. Two days before his sixth birthday, surrounded by family, Nolan ended his fight with cancer. I was at a training seminar and asleep when my dad called me at 2:00 am with the news, taking my own breath away.

Today, remembering that Nolan just doesn’t exist anymore, rushes the wind out of me and paradoxically fills me with something solid while also cutting my connections to gravity. I routinely have to take pause at school when the little 1st and 2nd formers come rushing through the halls, all bouncy-haired and vibrant. I had a minor panic attack when my STRENGTH NHJ first-cancer-round-fundraiser bracelet broke last month, and had to calm my breathing and stop the flood of tears.

And I wasn’t even with him every day.

A few weeks ago, I got the news that my grandpa on my mom’s side died. He was a great man and lived a great, long life. He was sick and had been battling all kinds of things from prostate cancer to dementia, and so it was his time. I remember spending weekends at his house as a kid, exploring his workshop, marveling at how good pipe tobacco smelled until it was lit, and hearing his standard I-like-bananas-because-they-don’t-have-any-bones joke. He left a legacy of six kids, 17 grandkids, and 4 great-grandkids. Like I said, he lived a great, long life.

There is something actually tragic about the death of a child, tragic in a way I’d never before understood the meaning. The lost potential for love and life, like a great book you’re only a few chapters into and then lose and are left wondering what happened. There is something horrifying at how such a thing could happen to an innocent person. There is something that brings about anger.

Today, remembering that Nolan doesn’t exist anymore, still makes me angry at God. You know that old analogy about the tapestry? It is supposed to be God’s plan for people, all intricate weavings and color changes and subtle patterns. Humans are often faulted as being unable to see more than the underside’s messiness and loose ends. But what it if is simply that we haven’t been offered the chance to rise up over the cloth’s edges to catch a glimpse of what beauty is being created? Are we to simply understand that the other side is beautiful while we find degrees of beauty in the unmatched, fraying threads?

The hard and painful truth is that life is contrasts. How can we know bitter, cold winter until we’ve tasted glorious, hot summer? How can we enjoy the touch of kindness if we haven’t had someone come at us with rudeness? How can we know the rush joy without feeling the stings of pain? How can we possibly understand the ridiculous discrepancies between a good, long life and tragedy? Contrasts suck.

Grandpa Tom’s tapestry continues through the interconnectedness he created during his long, great life. Nolan’s tapestry is similarly resolved, though I have a great deal less peace about the unfinished clumps of color and blank spaces. Tapestries suck, too.

What doesn’t suck is the greater understanding I now have in the contrast of weakness and strength. “Strength” will forever be synonymous with NHJ—Nolan Hunter Johnson. I remember thinking when he was born, what a good, strong name, a name for a solid start at a great life. Nolan had his start. And now we live with his death, his lesson in strength. His bouncy curls and never-ending energy and enthusiasm. The understanding of “peace” will come when the turmoil eases.

Nolan at Christmas