I walk. I walk this trail I walked with her. It is cold, raw.
As I head out, I round the bend and see the inner harbor ...the tide is out.
I beg God to let me talk to Phoebe ...let her hear me. "Remember" I say. "Remember,
when we came here, and walked this way for your pictures." We walked and talked.
Two sweaters, which to wear. I liked the blue ...it brought out her eyes. Hair up or down.
Floppy bun, or straight. We'll try both, I think. We were happy, chatty ...we were having
fun. "Remember Phoebe?!" It was so good then ...so good. We'd weathered so much of
the turbulent years. We'd arrived smiling. What happened?
I follow the curves of the trail, moving alone, tears falling ...it is quiet, no one is here today.
I am free to talk, loud, move my hands ...just the squirrels and birds watch me. I tell her about taking over her bureau ...making it mine. Her handprints still on the wood, proof she was here. I won't wipe them down. I tell her I'm heading to Bethlehem ...we'll spend Christmas together. I Remember the priest, the young Franciscan who came years ago. He held her attention. "Be at the Nativity, Phoebe" He had said that to her. "Close your eyes and picture Him there for you. Smell the hay. Feel the warmth of the animals. Let your senses experience the Nativity." Those were his words for her. And she had closed her eyes.
I tell her I am heading to Bethlehem because its the only thing I can think to do. I am at loose ends. I am functioning ...but I am unwoven, unhemmed. I am scattered.
This place she loved ...all of it ...this place of raw beauty, design of nature. Little trails call me in, scurry me down to the water. I see you were here Phoebe. I've asked you to lead me ...you show me. Is this the dirt you stepped on too.
I look up, the trees are bare, dark against the gray sky. Why is the ugliness beautiful too? What are you showing me? If I can accept the starkness of early winter as beautiful ...then why not the starkness of death?
The trees without there leaves ...are they still beautiful? I see the texture of their bark, the curve of the trunk, the intricate design twisting in the air. I see something new in the nakedness ...something beautiful? Is this what I'm being shown? That nothing is ugly ...not even Phoebe's death? I don't agree ...I can't. That seems a betrayal to her life ...her breath ...my love ...my mothering. Her death is ugly ...it is wrong, unnatural. Trees are meant to shed their leaves ...and live lifeless, seemingly, for a time. I get that. But there is hope in the spring that I will SEE. Phoebe is reborn in Christ through her death ...but I don't get to SEE ...and so for me, that makes it ugly.
But what if all I am using to see are my eyes? What if there is more, so much more for me to see ...and I am blind simply because I am only using my eyes. There is something here, a tiny glimmer of something for me to know ...something for me to see. I'm not ready, I have more to go until I'm ready ...I look away.
I keep my head low, forehead almost touching the ground with the weight of sorrow, sadness, missing.
Move on, forward. Empty and barren I move on ...to the manger. It pulls me. She pulls me, just ahead. Mary knew the innkeepers would deny a place for her. She let Joseph knock and seek, search and ask, yet she knew. God permitted him this struggle, this empty search. God permitted it, and Mary was silent. She knew the poverty of homelessness was meant for her divine son ...but Joseph did not. Mary knew that God loved Joseph, meant for the search, his struggle to mold him for eternity, ready him for the task ahead. Mary knows my struggle, my search ...she watches on. God permits this ....permits my sorrow. I look up, Mary nods, silent. "Its too hard" I say. "You must", she answers back. "I can't", I say. "You will", she urges. " Do the Will of the One who loves you Carolyn." "He loves me? ...he stole my daughter?" "He loves you", she whispers ...I follow. Her steps to Bethlehem lead me on.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace, Amen.
Your posts remind us of the grief we have all experienced when somebody we love returns unto the Lord. The grief of losing friends, mothers, fathers, grandparents, siblings is a drop in the bucket when compared to the grief of losing a child, but we have tasted enough of death to know grief.
ReplyDeleteMy Mom and Dad had been childhood sweethearts since first grade and when he died at age 40, my mother was consumed with grief. I was 11 at the time. My own numbness lasted months but I eventually and instinctively grew into my new life filled with much love and friends and beauty. I remember sailing past my mother in recovery with understanding that her grief would take her longer to pull out of it. But the longer she went on crying and consumed in her grief, the more I got the message that her life and all the love and beauty in this life was worthless to her, including my brother's and mine. It wasn't until I said something to her about it that she was jolted back into her life, our lives, this beautiful, precious life in this valley of tears.
You know in your Mother's heart what God is showing you, and what Phoebe is leading you towards, because you have expressed in these posts numerous times. Your youngest child has openly expressed it.
O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of the dear Saviour's birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining.
Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope, a weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees. Oh hear the Angels voices.
Carol,
ReplyDeleteI love your precision. You are on my path to Bethlehem, urging me forward. Keeping my gaze straight.
Thank you.