Giving up

The first time I gave up I was four years old.

My abuela — grandmother — was dying at home. I stood by her bedside, a plump toddler, not understanding, even as the priest came to the door, walked the shadowy hallway into her even more darkened room, the air heavy with the stench of rubbing alcohol, must and uncertainty.

He anointed her forehead, hands and feet with oil as I stood tiptoe next to my mother, craning to see and understand what was happening.

I watched all this, not knowing that a small part of me was “giving up.”

I was too young to understand that death stripped away those you love but felt a pang of it as her body was laid out in our living room, my tias scooping in like fat pigeons, cooing their condolences, wearing black lace mantillas, then bursting into orchestrated sobs and wails, as if on cue.

That spasm of grief grew deeper as we stood by the open grave, a man I don’t remember, telling me to throw dirt onto the casket. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

I buried my small head deep into my father’s shoulder as he cradled me, he said something, but what did daddy say?

After she was buried, I gave up speaking Spanish, or so I’m told. If I had to give her up then I would give up our language.

******

In third grade, I sat, hands folded on my desk, listening with my classmates as the good Sister told us to give up something for Lent. A sacrifice, she said. Chocolate. TV. This would be a way of emptying ourselves, giving up something for God.

I didn’t understand why God would care about such things.

Perhaps he wanted me to be kinder to my brothers instead. Maybe God wanted this. Maybe being loving was a bigger sacrifice.

****

Later in life I found words in writing, but also found myself “giving up” numerous times. Agents and publishers rejected novels, essays were often sent back, sometimes with an encouraging remark but often not. I threw writing in desk drawers, cursed, promised never to write again. 

Why continue when I would never write like Charlotte Bronte or Sue Monk Kidd or Anne Lamott?

Once again, I had to give up the idea that I would ever write like them. I had to write like me. Writing teachers and workshops encouraged me to find my voice. But where was my voice? Was it lost in that four-year-old who had to give up her grandmother and her Spanish?

****

In growing older, the space I now inhabit, giving up comes whether I invite it or not.

I have given up youth. Lush, dark hair, a lithe, agile body, a good night’s sleep, the hope of a writer worth reading or a place in the world where I have purpose and meaning. 

I’ve given up the dad I was once knew who is now bedridden from a stroke and often speaks through his cataract-laden eyes, trying to convey to me the meaning of his heart.

I’ve given up friends in death. And my love, dear Joe, who left me too soon.

****

A story is told of a man who struggled to reach the peak of a mountain. But he was exhausted, thirsty, his muscles ached. He couldn’t go another step. He was about to give up. As he turned to head down, a hiker came from behind him.

“Are you giving up already?” the hiker asked. “You’re only a few feet away from the most magnificent views in the world.”

*****

Sometimes I give up too soon. Sometimes I give up because I have no other choice. 

In these later years, I am giving up, most of all, the ego. That false self that continues to be pared down, stripped to make room for a greater good, a quiet willingness to open myself to a plan I may not understand but to a Higher Power that desires only my happiness — despite the pain and sorrow.

I am giving myself over to a simple trust, one I struggle each day to live. 

Death will come. My writing will find its way, no matter how small. I will fall, get up, cry, rejoice and through it all, I know the Divine Beloved is there, even in the driest, darkest times when I feel nothing.

With faith, I am learning this: The Divine never gives up. On me. You. Any of us. 

In my moments of despair — those long, dreadful seconds that hang in the air before sunrise when my soul and body question and struggle — Abba cradles me against his chest, comforts and assures: I am with you.

And in prayer, I find the voice of the child, whispering, “Gracias. Gracias.”