The Face of God -- Part 1

I just got a note from Frank Warren announcing the advent of the Post Secret app in September and the encouragement to share it with whomever:



For years I've sat in rooms with comfortable chairs and pillows and tissues so that people would feel some ease when they wanted to pour out the secrets that ate at their souls, and for the ones who were able to bring their secrets to light and gain the clarity to see how to remove the power of the secrets, it's been encouraging. Yet all of this was done while they knew I was in the room with them and more significantly, that they knew we would later run into each other on the street or at the post office, or in the grocery store.

Enter Frank who for six years has placed himself in the room but in a way that allows people to save face -- literally. He started the PostSecret Project in 2005 as an outlet for those who needed to give vent to something or to share a joy (those are few and far between). People may mail him a postcard decorated any way they like, and every Sunday 20 of the cards are posted on the PostSecret blog. Considering the 1,000+ postcards a week that Frank receives, it seems there is a great need for people to bare their souls, and the desire to do this is growing.

Much of it is the need to be absolved, and all of it is the need to be understood. There is almost no greater hell than to go through life misunderstood and feeling condemned and PostSecret gives people the ability to achieve some sort of clarity and absolution if only to know someone else is thinking about their secret. It makes sense when I consider that I've yet to meet but a very small group of people who do not feel this need, and of that minority, they are usually anti-social. Some believe we have created God in various forms to deal with the need. I've wondered a time or two (oh, heck a lot more than a time or two) if some of those people pouring their hearts out in front of me didn't do it just to have me serve as a temporary god for them.

She Glittered When She Walked

A dear friend of mine died thirty-six years ago, and I have wanted to talk about it for a long time. But capturing her has always eluded me, and I want to do her justice. I'm not sure this will do her justice, but I don't want to wait any longer.

She was like a beloved character from a novel who gives you a warm feeling and makes you hate for the book to end. Two years older than me, she was the sister I never had, and I followed her around and hung on her every word, and those were often quirky. She had a way of looking at life that I've never encountered again, and I wish were still in the world. Her zest for almost everything seemed uncontainable, and she frequently brought light into a room and defined it for everyone.

I loved the way she put everything in her terms. Even her terms of endearment. Anyone who was an object of affection, no matter how young or old, was referred to as "old skinny leg." Maybe that's a common expression somewhere in the world, but I've never heard anyone else use it, and I'm not sure I ever want to. I still hear the sound of her voice when she said it.

This week I'm thinking of her because Monday was her birthday. When I hear or see April 5th, she's immediately in my head laughing and talking. Her head is cocked and she's making a crack about something, and I hear myself laugh. I've had to content myself with reliving those moments and wondering what she would have been like as she grew older and married and had a family or whatever it is she would have done. But that's never going to happen, and I still mourn it.

When she was seventeen, she gave up on life. One day after school she shot herself in the head. Her dad found her, and of course he was never the same after that. Her mother never seemed to have much reaction until about ten years later when she killed herself too.

I don't know what particular pain Jan was suffering, but I know the kind of mental anguish that can tempt someone to think ending things is the only way to get some relief. It's a horror to be in that state, and the real tragedy is that it doesn't have to be that way. There is relief that doesn't require self-destruction, but it does require bowing. Bowing to something greater than ourselves. Something filled with more light than ourselves. I don't know if Jan had done that and just lost her focus, but I hope she did. It's the only thing that really alleviates the grieving.