Lenten Journey

I don’t want to rush through my grieving,
my Lenten journey.
I don’t want to rush to the comfort of “freedom from pain”
or “life everlasting.”
I need those things,
(for how can I survive each dark day without them?)
but I do not want to rush there.

I need to spend time in tears,
time with the weight of loss,
time feeling the vast emptiness within.
I need to hear and tell the stories,
to deeply feel the significance of the life,
and what it is to have it gone,
how my love will never again be expressed
or returned
in the same way,
before I can celebrate its new beginnings.

I need to hear the silence
where a voice once spoke, and laughed
and challenged and scolded and sang,
I need to hear it echo around my heart,
each deep listening finding only the softness of silence,
before I can join in the song of halleluiah and joy.

Without my pain,
I cannot know comfort,
without my grief,
I don’t understand peace,
without walking with the intimacy of death,
spending time in those dark shadows,
I won’t understand how brilliant is the light.

I don’t want to rush through my grieving,
for in the loss,
the pain,
I find passionate awareness
of my desperate need for resurrection.

I don’t want to rush through my grieving,
for I want to feel the full magnitude,
see the complete glory of the good news of Easter,
experience the resonating joy of an empty tomb.

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light;
those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them
light has shined.” Isaiah 9:2

This is the journey of Lent,
the path we followers of Christ take:
to set time aside and remember not just the life,
but the suffering and the dying,
and the emptiness Christ left behind
when he surrendered his spirit
and died upon the cross.
A death taken on for our sakes
so that we can know something more than darkness,
so we can receive what is offered:
the life that only comes through Christ.

This is my journey toward hope,
the path I walk in faith,
the journey that takes me through darkness
and silence
toward the glorious promise revealed to us
through Christ on Easter morning.

Already, I can hear the whispers . . .
Christ lives!

[Thank you to all who prayed for us and supported us following the loss of my brother and Robert's father. It meant the world to us!]

Puttering, faded pictures, tears and memories

January 9th,2009

I spent today puttering,
picking up one thing just to put it down someplace else.
I straightened up,
hung up a daughter’s clothes
left lying in a heap on her closet floor.
Saw a pen and some scissors that belonged upstairs,
took them up and noticed a toy that belonged in a toy box,
put it away and saw a book that belonged downstairs . . .
up and down,
wandering,
meandering,
filling time, yet still hearing in my head:
January 9th, January 9th, January 9th,
remembering traveling through a blizzard,
and not making it there in time.

Finally I wandered into the store room,
ostensibly to put away a game,
and saw the two boxes,
unopened,
still covered with airport security tape,
carefully brought home,
then moved, still safely sealed,
across almost 3,000 miles
and tucked away on the shelves in the store room,
for later,
for when I had time,
for when I could handle it.

I pulled the smaller one off the shelf
and carried it upstairs.
Got out my letter opener
(which made me think of one with elephants on it)
and cut through the tape
and slowly folded back the edges.
The first thing that caught my eye,
in this box filled willy-nilly it seemed,
was the small picture in it’s silver frame.
You and him, newlyweds,
you’re squeezing his face and he’s mugging for the camara,
goofy and silly and laughing and so much in love.

Found school pictures from when I was small,
I don’t even remember putting them in my box,
my baby book where you tucked in clippings of baby hair
and meticulously noted each tooth I lost,
and when I crawled and walked,
but left some pages completely blank,
planning, I’m sure, to fill them in later.
I read through each page,
learning things I had never known,
wishing there was more.

There were pictures I remembered drawing,
programs from plays and concerts,
Girl Scout Cookie orders (I still can’t believe you saved those!)
snapshots and a letter to Santa.
And Santa’s letter back.
Graduation announcements,
grades (some less then stellar),
glimpses of sisters and brothers
and you and Daddy.
Pictures of me as a newborn,
and of me in the hospital
holding my firstborn in my arms,
and Daddy resting my youngest on his belly,
of you smiling at me as a child,
and that same smile beaming at my children.

Funny silly things, kept and treasured
when I thought they had been long gone:
lost in a move
or thrown away when the fridge got too crowded
and no little eyes were around to notice.
Those silly, pack-rat things,
that filled your house to overflowing,
(along with all those extra pieces of furniture
you loved to tuck into every possible spot,)
things we could tease you about,
and tell you that you needed to clean out,
stuff you were always planning on sorting through,
and we loved telling you that you would start,
but never get around to finishing.
You’d look down,
rub the table and smile that little smile,
and let some little comment
slip out as if you hadn’t planned it,
but the look in your eyes always gave you away.

Each faded clipping, saved letter,
glimpses of your amazing handwriting,
valentines and birthday cards
signed, “love from Us”,
old school work and curled pictures
they all whispered to me today of a life,
your life,
and ours.
The boxes carried echos of laughter,
and scoldings,
reminders of who we were and who we loved,
(that’s your sister/brother
whom you dearly love!!)
memories of your blush after he teased you,
and throwing milk glasses down the table
while he chuckled, as pleased as punch,
and your smile of secret delight
and thinking that’s how all Mommys and Daddys were.

I remembered how I wished
you had been more comfortable telling us you loved us,
three little words,
“I love you”
that you said very rarely.
I’d say it on the phone to you
and you’d reply, “mmhh-humm.”
But today,
while puttering around and not getting anything really done,
I went through those boxes and heard those words
in each item I pulled out,
each item that you had tucked away as special.
I heard you celebrate my days,
big and small,
and found myself remembering
being loved
and feeling what it meant to be treasured.

I look at that snapshot
and the two of you,
so full of life . . .
and all I can say is,
I miss you, Mom!
Love you!
And I can almost hear you say,
“mmhh-humm!”