why "The Descendants" meant so much to me

The Descendants won big at the Golden Globes this weekend, taking home the Best Picture, Drama award, as well as Best Actor in a Motion Picture Drama award for George Clooney.  In addition, young actress Shailene Woodley was nominated for the Best Supporting Actress in a Motion Picture award.  All these Hollywood honors are wonderful, but I think the real test of a great film is its ability to touch our hearts, to connect with us in a universal, lasting way.  When we walk away from a film, a validated and more insightful person, we have seen a truly great film.

I saw The Descendants about a week before the Golden Globes and it touched my heart profoundly.  It is the story of Matt King, whose wife has just had a water-skiing accident that leaves her in a coma.  Shortly after this accident, Matt's teenage daughter, Alexandra, reveals to him that his wife has been having an affair.  Matt has hardly been the ideal husband, with little time for his family, but the revelation hits him with shocking impact.  He still loves his wife, despite his poor track record as a husband.  Around this same time, the doctors give Matt the terrible news that his wife is never going to wake up from her coma.  This news is made particularly devastating because Matt knows that now he will never have a time to mend his relationship with his wife; neither will have a chance to make amends.  The central question of the film now becomes: how do you find closure in circumstances that seem to resist any possibility of real closure?  How can you end a relationship forever when there is so much left unsaid and undone? 

I understand this central dilemma.  When my father got cancer, I was in college and what followed was a prolonged, seven-year battle with the disease that would ultimately kill him.  He died two years ago.  My dad was a complicated man.  He loved God above all.  I know he loved me and my brother.  He also could sometimes be stubborn and difficult and carry around baggage from the past.  There were elephants in the room in our relationship.  There were unspoken secrets at time.  I loved my dad very much, but there were some conversations I always wanted to have with him, but could never muster the courage to have. 

We are taught that we ought to wrap everything up with a bow when someone is dying.  We are to have perfect closure, everything clean and neat.  But, for the most part, I don't think death is really like that.  I think that we all end our lives with regrets, despite the slogans that we are trying to live life with none.  There is always the sense of what might have been.  The Descendants merely heightens this reality.  It is a profoundly helpful film for the grieving because it shows us the truth of what grief is like and how we might find a realistic kind of closure so that we might move forward in our lives, never forgetting our loved one, but able to continue living with hope.

Another central theme of The Descendants is appreciating what has been given to us, here and now.  Matt King serves as trustee of a large chunk of land in Hawaii, where his ancestors have dwelt for generations.  He alone may say yay or nay to the upcoming sale and division of this property.  Yes, the sale will make all the descendants a lot of money, but King must grapple with the fact that the inheritance his ancestors have left to him may find its true value not in money, but in the connections and beauty that it provides.  The land is a metaphor for what King still has left in his relationship with his daughters.  In the beginning of the film, he calls himself "the back-up parent."  Just as his relationship with his wife has been wanting, so has his relationship with his two daughters.  But as the three grapple with the hard realities of grief--including their anger, sadness, and finally acceptance--they are drawn closer together.  The false mask of indifference that they have all been wearing is shattered.  The journey to a more authentic relationship is painful, but the bond that they all form through the suffering is quietly hinted at in the closing frames of the film.

The idea that there can be a real healing as we move into the future, a healing which acknowledges the past, which gives it dignity and truth, a healing which is not perfect, but which also gives us permission to move forward...this moved me so much as I watched this film.  I appreciated that the reality of grief in its nothing-like-picture-perfect truth was portrayed so well.  And for the first time in a while, I found myself able to cry about my loss of Dad, connecting to the pain of the death of one loved so well and in such a complicated way.  Finally, this film gave us a beautiful picture of forgiveness, in the final monologue of George Clooney to his coma-ridden, dying wife.  The bringing together of his anger and his love for her in that final speech was masterful. 

I think that over the years, I will watch this film over and over again.  It connects me to the truth of grief, which must be felt in order to be healed, and to the possibility of hope. 

Most Popular Posts of the Year: #1 One Year Anniversary of Dad's Death

For the next few days, I will be posting 10 most popular Flathead Mama posts of the year.  I would like to invite you to take this chance to catch up on a good buzz-worthy post that you may missed.  Please also drop a comment on the original post.  I'd love to continue the conversation.  If you found a post particularly useful to you, I'd love your help to get the word out about Flathead Mama: copy and paste the link and post to your Facebook page, Twitter about it, or post to a Pinterest profile.  

Thanks and enjoy!
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I know at least one person who would be really excited about the top post of the year...my Dad.  He died in February 24, 2009 and on the first anniversary of his death last year, I posted the text of my eulogy for him at his memorial service.  This turned out to be the top post of the year!

My Dad would have been very impressed about this.  People all of the world who we didn't even know were reading his story.  Dad loved to talk and he loved attention (it's true).  He also loved Jesus and would have enjoyed the chance to share his story with lots of people.

People found my blog many, many times this year by searching for "first anniversary of father's death." It was by far the most common search item leading people to Flathead Mama. This told me something important.  It told me that all of us feel a little lost on the anniversary of our loved one's death, especially the first anniversary.  There is no societal ritual for us to engage in.  There's no script for our remembrance.  By the time the first year has rolled around, we are rather alone in our grief.  People have begun to move on with their lives, and they have begun to assume that we have moved on too.  But the truth is that the grieving process is on-going.  It never really stops.  It just becomes more internal, more settled deep down inside.

The people who found my blog this year may not have left a comment or said hello, but I hope that they found some comfort in my post about Dad.  I hope that they felt that we are all in this together, this journey of grieving.  I hope they felt a little less alone.

one year anniversary of dad's death

My dad, Harry Darting, struggled for years and years with Multiple Myeloma.  He was diagnosed when I was in college, and he died when my daughter was about one and a half.  He died one year ago today.  Today, in honor of my dad, I want to take the time to share with you the remarks I prepared for his memorial service last year.  I hope his story will inspire you.

For those of you who may not know me, I am Harry’s daughter, Rebecca.

As I stand before you today, I can’t believe it’s over. My Dad was diagnosed with cancer when I was in college, about 7 years ago. He was a tough guy and put up the fight of his life. He had so many close calls before now that I find it hard to believe that his journey is really over. I always expected him to keep beating the odds. But the time comes for each of us to pass from this world to the next and Dad’s came on February 24, 2010.

It is important to me today to get up before you and let you know how important my Dad was in my life.

But before I do, I want to thank my stepmother, Nancy, for all that she did for my Dad and for all of the love she showed him down through the years, even when he was a “difficult patient.” I know Dad loved her very much and I will always be grateful to her.

My Dad was not a perfect guy, but I think he was always trying to grow as a Christian, husband and father. After my parent’s divorce, my relationship with Dad wasn’t the strongest for several years but in his battle with cancer, Dad dealt with a lot of unfinished business in his life. He opened his heart to forgiveness and reconciliation where he needed to. He softened and became more easygoing. He let more things roll off his back. He made a lot more time for me and our relationship grew a lot.

I feel that part of the reason he fought cancer so hard was for Nancy and for Daniel and I. And because of his valiant battle, he got to see both of his kids get married. He got to meet his first granddaughter, Burrito. That he was there for these important moments in our lives will always mean the world to me.

What also meant the world to me were what became our regular Sunday afternoon phone chats. Dad always had interesting things to talk about—faith, politics (which we debated endlessly), movies, history. I always thought he was one of those people who never knew how smart he was. And Dad always wanted to know the latest news about me and Christopher…and of course his granddaughter’s latest accomplishments.

After Christopher and I were married, Dad made a big thing about giving Christopher an “oral practical exam” in order to make sure he was a suitable son-in-law. Dad made it sound like he was going to rigorously evaluate Christopher’s handyman skills but when we went out for our visit, Dad just invited Christopher to work on a project around the house with him in a friendly and inviting fashion. In characteristic fashion, Dad acted like a tough guy but was actually much more of softie than he would like to have admitted. He always made Christopher feel welcome in our family, which I really appreciated.

I always wished Dad would come to visit us up in North Dakota and see the life we’d made for ourselves there. We live in a small town and serve as pastors of two churches together there. Dad always thought small town life was the best, and he loved the wholesome atmosphere. Anyway, maybe it wasn’t the wisest thing for Dad’s health but when he finally did come to visit last summer, it meant the world that he would make that sacrifice. Travel—which Dad had always loved—had become grueling and complicated and risky. But he did it in order to come see us. We had a wonderful week together. Even though Dad couldn’t do the things he used to be able to, he cheerfully tried to help out, taking out the trash, repairing a broken door.

The funniest thing that happened was when “Grandpa” was charged with watching 10 month old Burrito during church. I was leading the service. I put Burrito in the stroller, fastened in, and instructed Dad not to pick her up or worry about changing a diaper, knowing his weakened state and physical limitations. If she started screaming during church, he was to wheel her out and walk her around in the stroller or just take her in the cry room.

Dad was never one to take “orders” from others though. He’d been one to take care of things himself his whole life. When Burrito started fussing loudly during church, he took her out. That part was according to plan, so I didn’t worry too much while I finished leading the service. Dad took Burrito into the cry room. At some point, he decided she was fussing because she had messed her diaper, so he decided to take care of business. The only problem was that when my brother and I were little, our parents used cloth diapers on us. Dad was not at all acquainted with disposable diapers. They were like a Rubix cube to him. Still, he thought that maybe he could figure it out but soon was in over his head. He tried to gesture wildly for help through the window in the cry room but the woman who saw him thought he was waving and just waved back.

When I came in to check on him after church, I found Burrito screaming on his lap with an open diaper wrapped around her bottom. Dad was looking pretty flustered and strewn about his feet were three other attempted diapers. My tough, mechanically minded Dad had been completely ungunned by disposable diapers!

Dad was always one to be an adventurer. When he was growing up, he thought if he could learn to fly, that would be his ticket out and around the world. He always had a wanderlust. Even his travels all over the world to Mexico, Haiti, Costa Rica and Africa never satisfied him. He was always looking for the next adventure. When Christopher and I went to visit him shortly after being married, Dad had already been battling cancer for a few years but he was determined to be a good host and show us some sightseeing. He took us on a trip to Globe and initially, it was just a nice trip. Then he decided we should take a drive on the Apache Trail. It’s this winding, unpaved almost one lane road that winds around a mountain. Dad said we should take it and just keep going. How long could it be? 45 minutes later, our teeth chattering from the constant bumps, our stomachs queasy, and our hearts filled with relief at having survived, we made it off that road. Dad’s love for adventure was unquenched.

In the past few months, there were several times when I would be visiting Dad on the phone or in person and would sense that he was trying to pass on his blessing to me and my family. He told me he was proud of me and that meant so much to me. Some of his last words to me were about my ministry. He said: “Rebecca, what you’re doing is making a difference in people’s lives. I wish I could be out there doing it. Don’t ever stop doing that! Promise me.” And I did.

When Dad was in his 30s, before I was born, he had the pivotal experience of his life: he came to believe in Jesus Christ as his Savior. Dad never really made it a secret that he had battled alcoholism and gone down some paths that weren’t the best. But coming to faith in Jesus Christ changed him forever. He told me only a short time ago that when he came to faith, he quit drinking and smoking cold turkey and suffered no withdrawal.

Dad had many ups and downs in the life of faith. It’s not like everything was roses from then on out, but he always knew that Christ had forgiven him of all of his sins and given him new life. He began to share what Christ had done for him with everyone he could. He found even talking to strangers about faith easy and natural. Because of this, I believe he had a spiritual gift of evangelism.

I know that if Dad would want all of you to know anything today, it would be the same message he shared his whole life: We are sinners, broken people. Sin infects our souls like cancer infected Dad’s body. It spreads everywhere. Dad had a stem cell transplant early on in his treatment of cancer. Before this, he had weeks of chemotherapy in which his immune system was killed outright. He had to be in the hospital for many weeks, in a clean room, in order to protect him from the slightest cold. After his old being was killed through the chemotherapy, the stem cells were injected into his body in order to give him new life. He said that this felt like a birthday. He was new all over again. In the same way, Christ’s death on the cross was a radical step, much like the aggressive chemotherapy that Dad underwent. This radical dying of Christ was the death that takes away our death. It was the radical treatment that frees us from our sinful nature. And Christ’s resurrection was like the injection of stem cells into my dad. It made him new and it makes us new. I believe with all of my heart and my mind that Dad is in heaven with the Lord now, made new. The most wonderful thing about being a Christian is that we can stare at an urn, at a casket, at a grave—the most fearful things that life can throw at us—and say, “This is not the end. This is only the beginning.”

I love you, Dad. You were a huge presence in my life and I’ll never forget you. I miss you so much already.

a dramatic week

So.  Long time no see.  It has been a crazy week which has really inhibited the time and energy to get much up on the blog.

Everything started at 3 AM last Friday morning.  I got up to use the bathroom and I had a really strong pain in my side.  Like a “I can hardly move” kind of pain.  But I pushed through it and got myself into the bathroom, took care of business.  As I tried to head back to my room, I got a huge rush of nausea and stomach cramping.  I managed to wash my hands and felt like I desperately wanted my bed.  I tried to walk the few paces it takes to get back there.  But instead, I lost consciousness and fell to the floor.

Luckily, my husband, who normally can sleep through anything, heard a “thunk” and came running.  He thought I had dislocated my knee (I have had problems with that).  Nope.  I had passed out. 

Folks, I am not the faintin’ type.  I can think of one time I almost fainted.  In my life.  Sometimes I feel a little light-headed with the stomach flu but I don’t faint.  But shortly before I passed out, I remember thinking, “Something is seriously not right.”  I even wondered if maybe I was going to die (chalk that up to my worst case scenario thinking that apparently is instinctive enough even for these situations). 

When my husband found me I got conscious pretty quick but wasn’t making a lot of sense and I was really pale.  This totally freaked us out. 

So this past weekend and week have been spent in a flurry of tests and doctor visits to try to figure out what went wrong.  It has been a scary week.  The whole hypochondriac in me has bad enough worries about things just on my own but when you add the fact that we are coming up on the one year anniversary of my dad’s death to cancer, and when you add the fact that I had to have a breast biopsy six months ago (thankfully, it was benign), the uncertainty of things this week was pretty tough.  I remember saying to my husband, “Just when I hit my stride, this kind of stuff always happens to me.”  But as came to the end of the week, with relief I found that it appears that there is nothing serious wrong with me.  Ovarian cysts are the cause, they are normal in women my age and mine don’t look particularly worrisome.  Now, most women don’t pass out from them, but likely one ruptured.  The doctor says there’s a good chance it’ll never happen again. 

I am so glad that things appear to be ok in my body, at least.  I’m mindful though that I have another breast check-up in March to make sure things are still fine and nothing has changed.  Is life just a series of heart-pounding worries, sighs of relief, and returns to worry?  Sometimes I fear that by the time I turn 80 and actually have real reason to worry about mortality that I will have whiled away my life shrinking into the corner of fears real and imagined.  I hope not. 

I know that having a toddler has helped me to embrace the moment much more than I used to.  With her, everything is immediate.  Everything is now.  She runs through life with a flurry of excitement.  She routinely runs around kicking her legs up in the air (karate style) with joy.  She gets pumped just going to Costco.  She can hardly wait to meet go see her “new friends” at church.  She laughs with abandon.  Yes, I might be a worst case scenario person, I might have gone through some things in recent years that make me look at the world a bit gloomily, I might be a worrywart, but I have a ray of sunshine in the Burrito.  In ten million ways a day, she makes my life better.  I’m so happy to have gotten through this week, so grateful for life and health.  I want to embrace every moment of life with abandon, like Burrito does.  Or at least more of them than I do already.  There’s a reason Jesus said, “If you want to be the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven, become like a little child.”  All I have to do is look at Burrito to know why.