Lately I've realized all the people I knew when I was young have long since passed away. As a child, I had no idea these "old" people around me had lived rich, exciting, even dangerous and heroic lives. When I was with them they talked about their health or their gardens or what they had for lunch, and as a child, I didn't know that if I would ask the right question I could unlock a treasure chest of stories that only they could tell. When they died, their stories died with them and were lost forever.
It makes me sad that I had dozens of elderly friends and neighbors and people at church, and I never really knew any of them. They were my friends, I liked them, I loved some of them. I would smile and chat for a few minutes, but it was all so shallow and I really knew nothing about them. How I wish I could turn time backward and spend time with all these people again and ask them questions about their childhoods, their friends, their adventures, their great loves and ask what were the happiest times of their lives. I want to know these things now, but it is too late.
I've moved too many times in my life. My heart and my feet never seemed to be in the same place. I always thought I'd be happier some other place, but I was wrong. Now, I wish I'd have stayed in the same place my entire life. I wish I'd have known the same people and had the same friends for 50 years. Most of the people around me now I've only known a few months or a few years-we are barely more that strangers; we don't share any history.
Our conversations are a handful of words, "Hello, how are you? It's going to be a nice day. I'll see you later. Goodbye." I don't know if they are happy or sad or sick or anything about them, and they don't know anything about me. I don't know about their families or jobs or history. We have to be so careful about asking questions; we can't appear too nosy. So we try to be polite and not ask questions and we stay strangers and never get to know each other.
A neighbor died last month. All I know about her is that she told me she was allergic to celery, her father was from Poland, and she'd never married. Eva had been my neighbor two years. We'd pass each other on the street, we'd smile, say "Good Morning," and keep walking. She was a tiny woman; she was short and probably weighed less than a hundred pounds. I regret never asking her to join me for a cup of coffee.
When I read her obituary, I learned that in 1942, at the age of 19, she was a WASP, a member of the Women Airforce Service Pilots. During World War II she flew B-17, B-26, and B-29 bombers from Texas to England. Men pilots were needed to fly bombing missions, they couldn't be wasted delivering airplanes.
Eva flew these huge bombers without a parachute because she was so petite that no parachute would fit her. The parachutes were made for men, and when she tried to put one on, it slipped right off of her. She was almost still a child when she flew bombers across the ocean, but she was fearless.
I don't know anything about her life between 1945 and 2017; there is a 72 year gap that will remain a secret forever.
Now that she's gone, I wish I'd have asked her a single question that might have opened up stories about her amazing life.
I only have one old faded photo of my grandparents. They aren't smiling, they don't look happy. They've both been gone over 60 years. I carry their DNA in my body. They are part of my history, except I don't know much about either of them. Grandfather searched for wild horses in Wyoming when he was young. When he got married he became a farmer.
My Grandmother lived on the reservation until she got married at 16. She was a farmer's wife and had 11 children. Were they happy? Did they love each other? Did they wish their lives had been different?
How well do we know our families, our friends, the people we see every day? How well do they know us? When we hear the stories of other believers' lives, sometimes we see great evidences of where God has worked in them. And that can bolster our own faith.
Let's share our stories; let's really get to know each other.
Crying Wind is the author of Crying Wind, My Searching Heart, When the Stars Danced, Thunder in Our Hearts, Lightning in Our Veins, and Stars in the Desert.
