The Pull
When I wrote this to my sister Judy in the Fall of 2020, she was dying of cancer. I never read it to her, which I don’t regret. I did read it aloud at her funeral, which I also don’t regret. She died on Christmas Day 2020.
While I didn't play much with toy cars when I was a kid, I really liked those little pull-back cars. Remember them? You can make a pull-back car roll forward by pushing it just like any other toy with wheels, but if you want it to really zoom, you roll it backwards first then release it. Hidden inside the toy is a tiny internal coil spring which winds up tight when the wheels are rolled in reverse. When the car is released, the spring unwinds with a snap and propels the toy forward, faster and further than it can go by rolling it with a push. Zoom!
flea market, Amy J. Schultz
Judy, this is your gift. You see the potential inside of people. Instead of just giving us a push, you lovingly draw us to you. You take the time to discover the promise latent within us, point us in the general direction of our dreams, and help us build up the energy to dare to spring free.
Over the course of your life, you have drawn in and energized an entire fleet of little cars in all shapes, colors, makes and models. Generations of students, as well as your friends and family, have been benefited from your magic touch. But unlike a magician, who performs at a distance to hide his trick, there are no artifices to your deeds.
We’re not toys, and you’re not playing. Because in addition to being your gift, this is how you love.
One morning not too long ago, when I walked into your hospital room, you and a nurse’s assistant were deep in conversation about her kids and the many challenges she was facing at home. Her eyes were welling up in that way people do when someone has really, really heard them. I made myself as small as I could so as not to interrupt. After she left the room, I asked you how long you’d known her.
“Since yesterday,” you said.
That thing you do, that way you draw people to you, has the power to do more than knock loose dormant tears. The experience of be accepted for exactly who you are is not quickly forgotten, if ever.
One of my favorite stories from your years as a school counselor is the one you tell of a rambunctious boy who spent a fair amount of time in your office to keep him out of the principal’s office. One day his busy little hands drew a picture of his stick-figure family standing in front of their stick-figure house. In the sky above the ground he drew a few small, wispy lines. When you took the time to ask him about them, he said it was his name, singing on a breeze.
I’ve never actually seen this drawing (although I know you’ve kept it all these years) nor have I met the boy (now a man). I know this story by heart because he mattered to you. Matters to you. Aside from his parents, you were the first adult to join his fan club.
In fact, throughout your life you were the first person to join many such fan clubs. What’s even more remarkable is your devotion as a lifetime member, as evidenced by the names saved to your phone and the friends on your Facebook feed.
Through the stories you’ve told us around the dinner table, we’ve gotten to know so many wonderful people and unlikely superheroes. We think about them and wonder how they’re doing. Along with you, we cross our fingers when they finally choose a race they can win, and we celebrate with you when they finally experience the thrill of coming in first place.
Who would have thought, for instance, that a boy who grew up in his grandmother’s saggy little house would grow up to travel the country?
You did.
Who would have thought that a girl, free-spirited and full of distractions, would find peace as an artist, entrepreneur and mom, holding her baby in her arms as her adoring husband holds her in his?
You did.
Who would have thought that years after he drew his name singing on a breeze, a man would recollect to his mother how Ms. Tison changed his life by loving him for who he was?
We all did, because we all have our own versions of that story.
As I look back on our sister lives together, I don’t remember the big stuff so much. What I remember are countless vignettes that illustrate your eternal love for me and mine for you. Some are funny, like the time you and JL helped me haul my worldly possessions up four flights of stairs only to discover afterwards that the dorm had a freight elevator. Some are awkward, like how-to talks about shaving my legs and other girl stuff or like trying to teach me how to water ski. Some are glimpses inside our shared personality disorders – I mean, quirks – like using too much tape on Christmas presents and having housefuls of tchotchkes.
Some are chill, like walking on beaches together or boat rides on the lake. Some are tender, like hugs and kisses and crying and telling secrets. Some are sweet, like your homemade bread and pies. Some are sentimental, like being each other’s bridesmaids.
On the other hand, Judy, some acts of love are so complex I may never fully grasp them. Like the way you singlehandedly cared for Dad and Mom at ends of their lives while, at the same time, you were losing your beloved Susan to cancer while you yourself were battling the disease.
What I can grasp is that in a world of jumpy attention spans and relationships with fine print, you are the real deal and so is your legacy. You can’t manufacture your kind of love nor can you fully measure its impact.
Love without restrictions.
Hope fueled by devotion.
Faith transcending religion.
Of faith, hope and love, the Bible teaches that the greatest of these is love. You’ve brought this Heavenly concept to Earth by loving literally thousands of people, and in doing so, showing them how to love themselves, others, and you oh so much in return.
Don’t push. Just pull. Don’t push. Just love. Love is the only thing that energizes. Love is the only way to let go. Love is knowing there will always be a breeze that sings your name.
Judy and JL, taken by me in January 2017