She is inconsolable, and as her heart is breaking, our own heart is breaking for her. I find myself unusually quiet, but my mind is suddenly flooded with a thousand memories. I give thanks for my wife’s strength and incredible ability to deal with crisis situations. She is our family’s rock and we are blessed daily by her incredible talents. As I watch two women I adore, locked in an endless hug, in deep communion over a tragedy that defies all explanations, I realize a profound truth: I was six weeks away from my sixteenth birthday when my best friend killed himself 38 years ago. My daughter is six weeks away from her sixteenth birthday. This crisis is uniquely hers and I cannot make it about me. Yet, in my mind I am an insecure kid all over again, and the fullness of that old loss brings me to my knees.
We do what we must do to comfort her: car rides, hugs, hours of listening to her stories, crying moments shared in silence, and mental prayers for her and her friend’s family. The fact that she has not had any food for two days worries us, but we chose not to push the issue. She sits in silence staring at the distance, trying to find answers hidden somewhere among the trees. Her friends have been calling, texting, and Instagramming her, and we are grateful for the support of her tribe. We wish we could take her pain away, but this is something we cannot do. Life can become extraordinarily hard to bear and sometimes the love of those who love us is just not sufficient to relieve our pain. We know she is grateful for our attempts, and we know we are doing all we can, but we still feel so inept and insufficient.
After sitting quietly with her for almost an hour, I ask, “Do you want to give me a makeover?”
She looks at me intrigued, a sparkle in her eyes. “Anything I want?”
“Anything you want. Make me into a heavy-set lady, fill my face with stars and landscapes, make me into Freddy Krueger. Whatever you want!”
She runs upstairs to grab her backpack and my wife gives me a smile. The local Sephora in Baton Rouge used to know my daughter by name. She loves make-up and saves her money to buy what she wants. Her backpack would make any Hollywood make-up artist jealous. She returns to the table and arranges her supplies accordingly, then she looks at her mother and dismisses her to her room. She claims an artist needs quiet and solitude to concentrate. We smile and comply: my wife leaves and I take my glasses off, ready to become her canvass.
I was not prepared for the two-hour ordeal, but soon I realize this is the longest she has gone without crying, and I am grateful. She applies make-up as an expert, changes her mind and wipes a certain area clean, applies a different type of cream or concealer, and continues with her design. I have no idea what she is turning me into, but I am not concerned. Make-up washes out and this is therapy for both of us. I am curious, however, but she refuses to tell me what I look like.
I have never been a model before, and I now realize that I tend to be judgmental about them. They seem so superficial and self-focused to me. I find myself now comparing models to blank canvases. They allow another person’s vision and creativity to shine through, and by doing so, they become integral to the entire creative process. I wait patiently until the great reveal. I see myself in the mirror and I smile. My daughter turned me into a sad clown because she herself feels indescribably sad. I realize I was the screen on which she projected her pain, and suddenly I feel useful for the first time since the crisis began. Then I wonder, “Does she see me as a sad clown? Does she think I hide my pain while trying hard to inject humor and levity into everything I do? Does she see herself as a sad clown as well? Is she telling me that we are more alike than I think?”
The questions keep coming and I refuse to answer any of them. The only answer that matters is that for two hours my daughter didn’t feel as though she was breaking, and I didn’t feel inept and insufficient. For this I find myself incredibly grateful today.
Blessings to all,
Fr. Roman
