I once taught some English language students the difference
between “limits” and “limitations” – not a monumental difference nor one to
even elicit laughter when the words are used incorrectly, like when Ruth told
us that her husband wasn’t “domesticated”. But a difference that matters.
The
two words came to mind today as I sat here, feet tucked underneath the couch
cushion for warmth, looking at the rare beauty of fallen and still-falling
snow, thinking of Jim. The snow no doubt conceals the recently upturned earth
of his grave. No one just looking at his burial site would know he was alive
this day a week ago, dead on Tuesday, buried on Friday.
But
for those of us who knew him, even casually as I did, the memory is like the
snow, pure and striking, bringing a sting to the eyes, a longing for what is
fleeting and beautiful to last.
I
saw from the obituary that Jim and I were the same age, born a month apart. I
saw from the photographs of him in his twenties that he’d once had a head of
California-blonde hair, belying the fact that underneath the shining waves a
tumor was growing to the size of a baseball. The surgery would be successful in
that Jim would go on to graduate from nursing school and work as a nurse for
years until the debilitating effects of having such violence done to his brain
would render him no longer able to work, then drive, then even live alone. Last year, another, different kind of
tumor would take the place of that first one, taking Jim’s body hostage, taking
his life at age 56.
It’s
hard to believe, but it was said by so many, and then again by his cousin David
from the pulpit at the memorial service, so I know it was true: “Jim never
complained.” Epileptic seizures, cancer, diminished physical strength and
agility in one who was clearly athletic, and possibly the most frustrating of
all, the ability to communicate as quickly as the rest of us do---but he never
complained.
The
slowness of his speech was a limitation, but I wonder if the limitations of
Jim’s body led to self-imposed limits that resulted in this remarkable quality
in Jim. You could see him gathering the sentence in his brain, and when finally
delivered, it was perfect, often something funny because Jim had a tremendous
wit, but always something positive. Never negative.
We
who can say whatever we want as fast as we want (while often thinking of
something else at the same time), don’t find it necessary to choose what to
express. It took a long time for Jim to say anything, and whether what he chose
to struggle to say was a conscious choice to reserve speech for blessing or the
product of an inner reality, or both, all I know is that when Jim spoke, it was
either to inquire from genuine interest about others or to respond with an
upbeat or funny comment.
“He
never complained.” Limitations leading to limits leading to an extraordinary
life. I, who have nothing to
complain about but do so readily, hope to honor Jim and our God by trying to follow his
example.
