In Memory of Jim Banning

            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.