Whom did I miss? Oddly, I found myself missing the little
conclave of people I know love watching Downton Abbey, and especially one of
our staff people at work: Claire. Not only does she dig the show, but when I
see her in the hallway at work, I realized that when I say “Hi, Claire,” it
sounds precisely like “Highclere,” the name of the castle where the show
usually is filmed. So when I found
myself at Inveraray, I snapped a photo and couldn’t wait to download it, email
it to Claire, and see if she recognized the place without me tipping her off.
Missing works this way. We associate someone with some place, or some
song, or something. In
Edinburgh we
waltzed into “The Scotch experience,” and I spied an absurdly rare bottle of
scotch priced at 10,000 pounds. I pulled
out my camera, photographed the bottle (and the pricetag), and emailed it to my
pal Stewart, who introduced me to fine scotch.
I missed him just then, and wished he’d been there.
Did I miss my wife when I saw the bottle
of Scotch? No. But I missed her terribly during most of the
junket when she wasn’t there. Walking to
the north end of Iona, where there were no other human beings, just a handful
of sheep and gulls, I wished she were there, knew she would treasure the
moment, and knew my telling would both thrill her and stir some envy – as it
should. I try to type messages to her
later, or show her the photo gallery once I’m home – but this leaves me hollow,
as it’s just not as precious as it would be had she been by my side.
I miss my children during such days. When they were little, we all travelled
together. But now we do not. But I think of each one, and not all together
I find. When we worshipped at the abbey
in Iona, I heard the lead singer, who was all right, but not as good as my
Sarah would have been, and I wished she were with me – or even leading the
singing.
When we hiked the daunting
climb to the top of Dun I, the highest point on Iona, I wanted to phone my son
Noah right then; and later I did shoot him a message reporting that we had an
“arduous” hike – and knew he would laugh out loud over the word “arduous,”
which I used repeatedly the previous summer when we hiked in Switzerland. Indeed, he responded with a
“hahahahaha.” I really missed him right
then.
And any time I take a photograph, I wish
Grace were there. She became my official
family and personal photographer during her high school years. What an eye, what an ability to capture just
the right moment, angle, framing. Every
photo I ever take, I wish she were there taking it instead of me. I miss her every time I lift a camera to my
eye.
What does it mean to “miss” someone? You are somewhere, in some situation, and the
living, vital presence of someone – who may even have died twenty years ago! –
lingers, because the moment reminds you of that loved one, because you know he
would dig this moment, because you know she of all people would grasp the
grandeur of the moment. And that bond
enlivens you, and yet grieves you at the same time. Could God rework the universe so those I love
might be hovering about on standby, reading to stand with me here, or there, or
at a castle on Inveraray, or in a stone church on Iona, and relish the moment
with me?
Years ago I found myself in Paris,
alone. I saw the grand buildings, the
beautiful landscape, the stunning stained glass and architectural wonders – and
was miserable. Every scene was one I
wanted to share with Lisa, or a friend whom I know is keen on architecture, or
Chopin, or pate. God declared this at
creation: “It is not good for man to be
alone.” I know it is not good for me to
be alone, or at least I am dead certain I do not wish to experience this world
alone.
