Filling in the Blank

 This past weekend my entire family and I flew to Portland to visit Darian who lives in Happy Valley, a nearby suburb. It was simply a delightful time - we laughed until our bellies hurt, and ate (until our bellies hurt) and drove up Mount Hood and meandered city streets and drank smoothies and played cards and - well, just had a wonderful time being together.

But probably the highlight of the trip (other than finding out that Savana is pregnant but that's an entirely different blog) was seeing Margie, Roy's sister.

We haven't seen Marge in about twenty years now. Twenty years! I'm not sure how it's been so long, or why we've allowed it to be so long...but regardless, it has. We met her at a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant that was tucked away on the side of a busy two-lane highway on Saturday afternoon. She walked through the door, held out her arms, and welcomed us all in. And then she sat down at the table, all of us circled around her, and began to entertain us with stories.

That's the thing about the Seals family: they all have booming voices, loud laughter, and entertaining stories. Marge is true to form: funny, witty, and easy to listen to. We laughed as she talked about how she is building a fence that, in typical Seals' style, will still be standing in the next millennium. 

And then, after about twenty minutes of amusing us with her stories, Marge suddenly said, "Well that's enough about me. Let's hear about you!" And she turned to me, cocked her head, and waited.

And I froze.

Because that's what I do: freeze.

You see, I'm not an entertainer. I don't have the ability to feed the crowd from the palm of my hand, to create uproarious laughter in my wake, to have people on the edge of their seats in anticipation of what I will say next.

I remember one time when I was a teen I took a personality test. It was one of those tests where it listed four words and one had to circle the word that most described them. I well remember looking at this set of four words and realizing that the word that described me best was the word "blank." I read them again, wishing desperately that the word "blank" was not my best descriptor to no avail. "Blank" said it all, said it best.

As a young child, we spent many weekends at my grandparents' home and they often asked us about our lives, eagerly anticipating our stories. But I always hung in the background, listening as my sisters talked endlessly about the most mundane things. Even then, a child of 8 or 9, I sat amazed at their ability to create stories out of nothing.

I much preferred sneaking up the stairs to the creaky iron bed that stood underneath a large window, throwing myself down on it, pen and paper in hand, and writing the hours away. That's where I craved the "blank": blank pages were open invitations, a clean slate, the beginning of a dream, endless possibility, escape.

Because, well...  that's how I am. In conversation, words fail me. But give me a writing instrument, a blank slate, and the words tumble over each other, anxious to get out; armed and ready.

And so, when Marge asked me about me, in all sincerity, of course, the only thing I could think of was...Um...well...(long pause)...I'm a teacher?

I looked at Darian who was eyeing me humorously, a twinkle in her eye as we so totally get each other, and shrugged. Grinned.

Thankfully, Margie saved me from myself and filled the silence once again.

After awhile, we headed outside where Roy and Marge hung out at her truck and chatted some more while the kids and I entertained ourselves by seeing who could get the closest to hitting a certain letter on a road sign with a rock, or posing for pictures, most of which Jace ruined with awkward smiles and dorky faces. 

And then, at last, we said our goodbyes though none of us really wanted to leave. It was a magical few short hours filled with the remembrance that family is everything - even family that you haven't seen in far too many years. It was the remembrance that the bond between a big sister and her baby brother extends far beyond the confines of time, ethereal in nature. It was the stark reminder that twenty years is far too long - inexcusable really. 

When we left, I made the comment to Roy that I am angry at myself for allowing so much time to go by, that Margie is so wonderful, so fun. And, in a moment of wisdom, Roy said, "Let's not do that. We have today; we have the future. Let's focus on that."

And so, here's to the future. Here's to the day when we all get together again, when laughter fills the room, when voices boom and entertain. Here's to bear hugs and family togetherness and stories - lots of stories - and love. So much love.

And? Here's to "blank" and Margie taking up the slack and filling it with nothing short of goodness.