The Art of Showing Up

The following is written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.

My great-aunt propped herself on my grandmother’s hospital bed and rummaged through her huge, Mary Poppins-esque purse, or pocket book as she calls it, until she finally found what she was looking for – a giant bag of Jolly Ranchers.

She told me to open my hand and then loaded it down with a rainbow of hard candies. I may be a grown woman with a child of my own, but to my great-aunt I will always be a kid. And, she knew that children can be comforted with candy.

And, as the familiar sweet/sour mixture of the apple candy flooded my taste buds, I, for the first time in days, relaxed. The candy reminded me of being at my aunt’s lovely, small cottage house with the swinging doors that lead from the kitchen to the dining room; the ones that never failed to make me pretend to be an outlaw who was busting into a saloon.

Pat and Chris, my grandmother’s sisters, had arrived at the hospital to check on her. I didn’t know that they were coming. I should have. It is, after all, what they do. They show up. When the “they” consisted of 12 siblings strong – they showed up. And, now that there are only three who remain, they still arrive – with bags of candy in tow.

Their arrival lifted the blanket of loneliness. It also reminded me of the simple yet beautiful art of showing up. They couldn’t do anything by way of “fixing” my grandmother physically, but that didn’t stop them from getting in a car and driving five hours to sit by her bedside. They showed up so that when Wanda, their oldest sister, the one whom they still lovingly call by her nickname, Datie, said that she would like some fuzzy socks, they could immediately send my uncle, who was dutifully staying out of their way by reading the newspaper in the waiting room, to Wal-Mart to buy her several pairs.

They were there to remind me that even at age 42, if you momentarily forget the family rule of never actually chomping down on the hard candy that you were given, you will still get fixed in an icy stare with the accompanying rebuke of, “Sosha, remember how to act, for the love of Pete.”

As I sat in that dull yellow hospital room, with its plethora of squawking machines, and let my saliva quietly dissolve the halves of my Jolly Rancher, I realized that one of my long-standing personal creeds was rooted from growing up with people who knew the importance of just “being there” during the difficult times; of simply climbing in the car and showing up when a loved one’s world had come crumbling down around them.

It is why I can think about the wall of people I saw sitting on hard benches, people who had left their warm homes and traversed snowy, mountainous roads on the day that I had to eulogize my beautiful baby brother. It is why I almost hit my knees when Kathy, my best friend from high school, held me in a silent embrace; why I can still smell her shampoo and feel the texture of her leather jacket that she wore that day.

It is why that I try my damnedest to show up for the people in my life. It is why, as Deirdre Sullivan so poignantly implored, that I always go to the funeral.

I don’t always know what to do or say. It is often uncomfortable and awkward. It would be easier to stay nestled into my couch with a good book and a soft blanket. Difficult situations showcase our vulnerability and remind us of our mortality. During times of sadness and brokeness, we bog ourselves down thinking that we need a grand gesture or a rock solid plan to fix everything.

We don’t.

We just gotta show up (and, it never hurts to bring along some candy).

Soshally Awkward

Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.