Seeing Beyond the Loss of a Soul Mate

Death is that final destination from which others don't usually come back to tell us it's OK on the other side. Yet, we have in recent years begun to hear many near-death testimonials that can fire our imaginations and give us hope. Others of us obtain our Hope from religious faith that has endured for centuries. Jesus' resurrection from the tomb is one of the most enduring, if not the most enduring, of all stories in the religious traditions

We struggle with the voids left behind by those we love. We worry for their well-being and anguish for the hard journey they made. We struggle with our loneliness. In these times there is opportunity for growth and healing.

"Hairpin Turns" was inspired by the death last week of my favorite uncle. I went to work last Wednesday expecting a normal day. It was not my plan to be in a national cemetery three states away by lunch time. But so it happened and a vast opportunity for growth and healing came to pass on the twists and turns of life.

One day at my office in the hospital, just at quitting time, a fellow employee turned to me in a numb state of shock, having just dropped the phone down on her desk. She asked me to show her the way to the family counselling room where her family had just been told of the death of her beloved uncle. "Family Counseling Room" is a memorial to the pain and healing that took place in that room that day.

"Backhoe" describes my experience at the grave side ceremony of a young friend consigned to the unknown at the age of twenty-three. A backhoe sitting ten feet from the grave made its presence known with its creaking hydraulics. Its operator sat on a tombstone next to it, impatient for us to finish our business so he could go home for the day.

Exactly one year after I stood next to that backhoe I returned to Susie's grave where I found the grass nicely grown in and kids playing softball near by. In "Cemetery" I wrote Susie a last letter.

"Bench" describes an encounter with a memorial bench in a botanical garden where I sat musing about the short life for whom this bench had been given.

Working in a hospital, I'm often in close proximity to calamitous events in the lives of people. One day near the holidays with festive holiday decorations in place, I was sitting in the cafeteria when a "Code 99" announcement over the PA reminded me of the fragility and beauty of life. We call a Code 99 when a patient has gone into cardiac arrest.

One day while driving to the mountains for a Sunday hike I killed a cat on the highway. This is something I have always dreaded doing, especially since I considered cats highly virtuous creatures of civility. In "Lament" I pondered the unknown fates that brought us to the same place in space and time. I wondered if some child cried that night, unable to find a prized pet.

Sometimes the pain is so vast it just obliterates everything in our world and we have a sense of simply melting down. So it was with "Angst."

"Orchid" is the memorial to the linkage Susie and I formed just before she died. My last time with Susie was on a blustery January day in the Orchid house at the botanical gardens. Perhaps her last memories on earth were of orchids. I recall the enchantment she experienced there. "Orchid" proved to be the seed for the first collection of poems that Susie gave me.

Sometimes the best way to deal with really hard circumstances is to laugh hard. Mom requested cremation and we stopped by the funeral home to collect a small copper box containing her ashes which had been placed in a blue velvet bag. "Dear Mom" is the last letter I ever wrote Mom.

A good friend of mine recently returned from his high school reunion where he had found a conspicuous absence of class mates from his class. An alumni magazine listed those that had departed for Eternity. "Alumni News" describes his thoughts on his reunion experience.

"Night Crossing" and "Jet II" were written as memorials to my mother when she died. At the funeral I stood on the chancel steps in the great cathedral and read "Night Crossing" to those assembled. A very dear friend had a fine rose tree sent to me the day after Mom died. The delivery girl told me to be sure to give the tree ash as this "Thorn Tree" would bloom much better.

Hairpin Turns

Five times in about as many months I have casually punched the "play" button on my answering machine to find my life suddenly put on hold. Five times that blinking red harbinger of mortality has announced the death of a family member. Just today, I again punched the button on the answering machine in my office. I soon learned my favorite uncle had just departed for that far away place where even calling cards don't ever work. I also discovered the funeral was in two and a half hours and two hundred and fifty five miles away. It was obvious that getting there in time was an impossibility.

I left work immediately in a leaden, miserable rain, not even stopping by the house to get clothes or toothbrush. Fortunately, I had obtained gas last week and did not need to give precious minutes to getting more. Even thought knowing I didn't have a chance of making it, I probably set a ground speed record for getting between Anderson SC and Chattanooga, TN trying. Have you ever seen a ten-year old Toyota do warp nine? Half way there the windshield wiper motor failed, completely blinding me. Seconds later the rain stopped and never recurred, allowing me to drive the remaining one hundred twenty miles in some degree of safety. As I pulled into the funeral home, a small orange light came on, indicating I was now running on fumes and would soon be walking if I did not do something very soon.

I find myself reflecting on the day as it has unfolded thus far. I started out on my path today headed a specific direction, wanting to get to a single destination, to achieve a particular result. It had been my plan to invest my day in doing an analysis of cardiac patients at the hospital where I work and then going on to the community theater for the evening where I am a volunteer grunt, doing everything from building sets to carrying out the trash. We have an opening night in a week's time and I have a lot to do. Instead, I suddenly find myself rather quickly facing a very different direction, facing death. I didn't plan to square up with death when I got up today, but here I am with my uncle's widow on Ashmore Terrace going for dinner at the cafeteria to have one of those meals that usually happens only when someone dies. I don't think any of us ever plans to embrace death when we arise in the morning. It usually catches us by surprise. Death is often described as being like a thief in the night; very swift, giving no warning.

It occurs to me that life is much like a treacherous mountain road filled with hairpin turns; one filled with anxious moments and surprises. To safely negotiate hairpin turns and continue progressing safely towards our final destination requires that we slow down, often change directions, and be willing to give up our own dream of a level straight-away. If we are unwilling to shift directions and insist on pressing forward on the shortest path, gravity will cast us down into an abyss. If we press forward on our career goals, financial goals, and performance-oriented task lists, we are likely to miss out on much of what is important in life and be cast into a void of missed opportunities for personal growth and relational fulfillment.

It has been my experience to many times drive on some of the most treacherous mountain roads on earth. At the beginning of one such journey we could see our final destination a mere six miles away, across the valley. What we could not see were the hairpin turns embedded in the walls of those volcanic canyons. As we entered the dark shadows, the only thing we could see were the hairpin turns. We never saw Shangri-La again during the entire day. It took fourteen hours to traverse that volcanic vastness on a single unpaved track carved out of the upper reaches of serpentine cliffs. We had to trust the builders of that road knew their way and had completed the passage before us. In the very midst of some profoundly stressful circumstances negotiating that wild place, we were captivated by scenes of unimagined beauty; primeval volcanic valleys cloaked in verdant rain forests illuminated by blazing tropic rainbows. I never would have seen these if I had clung to my own demands for safety, predictability, control, if I had stayed down in the safety of the four-lane. And yes, we did reach our Shangri-La in the darkness of night.

Today I have not negotiated volcanic valleys but I have skirted around the edges of a valley I know I will one day enter fully for myself; the Valley of the Shadow of Death. My uncle went in there for himself on Monday. The rest of us assembled here today are wondering what it is like in there, what is at the far end, and just how bumpy the road is. Not easy things for us to think about, especially being products of a culture that doesn't talk about death and limits grieving to three days of funeral leave.

I had spectacular surprises on that volcanic journey and even as we gathered to "celebrate" death, I made equally splendid discoveries. I discovered four fine cousins I had never known previously and was soon 'mining' their rich histories and swapping e-mail addresses. I found my desperate need for family connection being fulfilled. For several hours we celebrated our shared history and alliance. For the first time in many years, I felt like I had a place, an assemblage of which I was part. It occurred to me how easily I could have missed this if I had not been willing to jettison my plans for the day as originally formulated. When I got that fateful message today I did not think about whether I should come here and spend time with my aunt who has lost her life partner of sixty-two years. I didn't weigh this against the importance of the things on my calendar for today or tomorrow. I simply did it.

I may have a choice about driving on a treacherous mountain road or dropping my plans for the day and going to a funeral. I may cancel my plans for the next hundred days and go on a dream cruise. Yet, there will come a time when I am called to take a voyage and will not be given any options about the arrangements. I will have to face the Valley for myself, as did my uncle. There will be dark shadowy hairpin turns, steep drop-offs, ruts, a lack of guard rails. Most likely, I will be required to make the journey alone. Most often the destination will be out of sight. The journey may be so tortured as to drive from my memory any remembrance of Shangri-La at the far end. As much as I may wish to turn back, it will be impossible. On this single-track road there are no turn-outs or rest areas, no places to turn around.

As ominous as this may sound we can take heart from the most majestic travel brochure ever written: the New Testament. It speaks ever so clearly about the Golden City at the other end of the Valley, with its streets of gold and gates of pearl, a place with no night and no pain. There I will experience an eternity of surprises and discoveries. There we will share one of those feasts that is possible only when we have truly come home. The harsh journey will be instantly forgotten, much as a new mother's pain is submerged in joy. The brochure does warn that the way is narrow but that if we hold onto the Guide's hand we will get there safely. It will be a hard trip for each of us but the destination is tops. I would encourage you to make arrangements in advance with the Guide. Last-minute walk-ups do have a harder time with the journey.

I go to prepare a place for you. If it were not so, I would have told you.


Wake

Suddenly, still silence abounds,
there is time for contemplation.

Screaming voices of achievement yield to
small whispers of quiet reflection.

You regret circadian busyness,
crowding out what could have been.

Tentative in spirit, unsure of your words,
you offer hopeful musings to mourners.

You lay ambrosial flowers on my shrine,
encasing me in retrospective affection.

Passing on, I left you in the fast track.
Aromatic gardens beckon a lane change.

In this redolent parlor of reflection,
a Pathway leads to abundant life.

Let me show you the Way.


Family Counselling Room

Like most hospitals, the one I work in has at least one of these windowless interior voids stashed in an obscure place. For years one can pass by it and not know it's there. Ours is in a rabbit warren of tiny rooms and blind halls behind the Emergency Room. You don't ever want to be told to come to the Family Counselling Room. They don't give out good news in there. Family and friends of victims of auto accidents, gunshots, and heart attacks often have their worst fears realized in the dark recesses of this secret maze.

It was just minutes before quitting time yesterday when I went to tell a co-worker about some newly discovered good fortune of mine. As I entered her office, the phone rang. She was being summoned to this room, as I stood there. She had no idea about this room or where it was. Solemnly, I offered to show her where it is. The nature of it would soon enough be self-evident.

In grim silence we made our way to that far place. We found most of the passageway doors locked but the last one we tried was open. Inside, the labyrinth reverberated with wailing. With uncertainty, Karen knocked on that fateful one labeled 'Family Counselling Room.' Opening the door we experienced a great crescendo of angst and travail. Karen passed into that inner space to encounter that which we spend lifetimes denying.

My navigational services fulfilled, I backed out; retreating to the silent familiar safety of my living world. How could it be that family members are summoned to that unknown place beyond life with no notice or warning? It seemed so brutal. Especially, right at quitting time when the day is supposed to get better, not worse.

In those few seconds when I was suspended in that space between the repugnance of brutal sudden death and the allure of life, I saw something magic. The doorway into that Family Counselling Room revealed people tenaciously living life, ferociously loving each other, and proclaiming someone mattered a whole lot to them. If only I could be so lucky as to have lived a life such that a Family Counselling Room full of people would feel my departure to be a real loss. This fellow was fortunate. He lived right and the room was full.


Backhoe

A dear friend has just flown beyond,
to that place from which postcards never come.

Raw earth, newly dug, squints in the brightness of day,
still used to its subterranean darkness.

You rest, your hydraulics still creaking,
your yellow earth-stained maw downcast.

We survivors take refuge in life,
our young traveller in her mahogany shrine.

The preachers tell us of hope and safety,
the raw still-steaming earth, of brutality.

Family and friends disperse to life,
seeking to believe the message heard.

You consign our young flower to the blackness,
your maw re-filling the earthen void.


The Son has risen, to meet our traveller.


Code 99

Attaching great value to the trivial;
commerce of living consumed me.

Giving little thought to the sacred,
I squandered priceless days of life.

A mere heart beat from the unknown,
I indulged in animated sentience.

Frolicking in spectral delights of Christmas,
I hear announcement of your passing.

Your heart ceasing to pulsate,
I give pause to take thought.


You have taught me about true living.


Cemetery

We came by to see you today but you weren't in. It seems like ages since we last saw you, perhaps a year or more. We haven't heard anything of you and were thinking of you. Thought you might want to know what's been up this past year.

We had a much colder winter than usual, it actually snowed five times. Yeah, here in the south no less! Spring seemed late this year and probably still hasn't showed up in the north. The TV said it snowed in Wisconsin last night. Today is almost like that day last year when we were last together; bright and sunny with the flowers finally claiming victory over winter. There are lots of the yellow ones you like so much. In fact, there is a bunch of yellow roses right here. Not sure who brought them. Maybe your Mom. She seemed to know about them.

We climbed to a really cool glacier field in the Canadian Rockies last August on a horse. Pretty scaring going up a cliff on a feisty beast that seemed more interested in eating than staying alive. But you know about scary stuff, don't you? We got down alive and I wrote a poem about it called "Struggle." A poem? Yeah. I kept wondering if I should get down off that horse and go on my own. It seemed the safer thing to do. I stayed on the horse because I didn't want to let on I was chicken.

I remember how much you liked being outside in green wild places. Your Mom gave me that picture of you on the rocks in the Chatooga River. I keep it here on my desk at work, also with that last letter you wrote me at Valentine's. A bunch of us got to go to the Amazon in October which seemed really wild and really big. We wanted to learn about the medicinal value of the plants growing there. I have given an Amazon program in a bunch of the schools. The kids thought the big snakes the best. I got a picture of a 200 pound Anaconda snake up in the trees. You should have seen the kids go wild. I think you would like to go there sometime. I wonder if they have stuff like the Amazon where you are.

You would like the name thing they put here for you. It has three butterflies carved into the stone. Below the dates it says you were a REAL person. That's for sure. Someone has kept the grass cut and your place looks nice here. The grass is starting to grow in pretty well now from the edges. You would be pleased to know a bunch of kids are nearby playing the first early spring softball game and laughing a lot.

It's really weird, but since you left I keep getting all these poems. I never cared about reading them and certainly had no interest in writing one. I was standing right here a year ago, just after you left, and had the first one come into my head. Since then I have gotten hundreds of them. I made a book of them at Christmas called Orchids. I told the readers about you at the beginning. It seemed that since I got the first one here I should tell people about you. Would you believe I sold them all and don't have any more copies? They seem to really like hearing about you. There is going to be a second book of poems this summer. I wish I could send you copies of these but I don't have an address for you. I think you would like them.

The timing was unreal. I came three hundred miles to see you today and found out on this very day the botanical garden was having its big annual plant sale. Way cool!! I went and got an orchid plant for your Mom and took it to her. She was afraid she would kill it but was glad I had brought it to her. Jan gave me a big book on growing orchids and I told your Mom I would call her and tell her what the book said about keeping them alive. I wanted to get a yellow Orchid but they were too expensive. I got her one with five pure white flowers on it.

Your Mom seems to be doing pretty good. She has had a hard time in the past hasn't she? She has those days where she cries a lot and other days she is able to go do stuff in the garden and laugh a bit. Your step dad seems OK. He was nice to me when I came by to bring your mom the plant. Your brother moved out last week. He is having a hard time with stuff. I think he must miss you a lot and is not sure what to think about your leaving so soon.

Your Mom has kept your room just the way you had it. Your stuff is still all there and no one has messed with it. I remember when I came home from college and they had made my room into a workshop. It felt real bad. Your room looks like you still live in it. That quilt thing your friend made for you is still in the same place on the wall by your bed where you had me hang it up. I haven't seen Heather so can't say how she is for sure. I remember something from your mom a couple months back saying she was doing fine then.

Gotta go now. It's getting dark out here. We miss ya. Hope that things are going OK for you there where you are. Do you guys get e-mail there? I went on-line last month.

CJ


Bench

Riding the electric trolley Sunday afternoon,
I shared joy with others living their dreams.

My day colorized with resplendent blooms,
hopeful expectations paint my aureate future.

This tranquil space, set aside for peace,
enfolds me in shimmering arboreal fantasy.

Walking in sacred cathedrals of spruce,
I came upon a memorial to your life.

Finely crafted wood, embellished with brass,
tells me your short life was of great value.

I wonder what gracious soul loved you;
wanting me to know of your brief sojourn.

What were your favorite comic strips?
Were you a Trekkie? Ever play baseball?

Did you ever fall in enraptured love?
Did you have communion at sunset with another?

Did you find your Way to that far Place,
where night never comes and pain is no more?


Mind if I sit down?


Lament

Solar radiance illuminated your day,
promising hours of frolicking feline fun.

The rising astral pendant gilded my day,
offering omens of actualization and catharsis.

Unknown to us both, our paths converged,
shared ignorance keeping us in summer bliss.

Serpentine ribbons of asphalt beckoning,
I set off for ascendant possibilities.

Greener grass on the other side seducing,
you sprinted across into your destiny.

In the fusion of our fates you faltered,
never seeing the apparition that befell you.

Melancholy shadows darkening my soul,
a young child cries, wondering why.


I couldn't stop in time.


Angst

Far away, tendrils of your heartache
extend darkness in the lingering night.

Cold mist shrouds my soul;
early morning warmth eluding me.

Shared pain galvanizing great grief,
I send prayers of petition Beyond Orion.

Your tears staining our hearts,
I look behind stars for your Comfort.


He answers.


Orchid

You come to me in your hour of great anguish;
the sands are nearly gone from your glass.
Your blossom too, is fading, your spirit heavy,
your pain reminding you of the shortness of time.


I too know loss, my blooms quickly fail;
much of life for me is without color.
I most often being little more than weed,
rarely enchant you with my splendor.


You, a young flower in His image, fearful of fading,
come share in the fragrance of my bloom,
delight in the vibrancy of my spectral outburst.


For a moment, we will share our blooms together,
remember me in your darkness,
it is in darkness we best rest.


We will both bloom again,
I for but a short season,
For you, your sands will never again fail.


The Gardener tends us both.


Calendar

February, the month of love; short and sweet. Valentine's Day. From what I figure, you spent sixty two of them with your childhood sweetheart, snitching Valentine's kisses twenty years before I came to Earth.

I'm sitting here in your kitchen chair, wondering what your second full day there is like; curious to know if you have gotten settled in yet. From the small bits I hear, it's supposed to be pretty easy to get used to the place and anything you could ever need or want is provided by the management. Is this true? The only negative thing I have ever heard is that the road getting up there is often pretty rough, with some really painful bumps and ruts. I trust you were able to avoid the worst parts of it.

From where I am sitting I can see your monthly wall calendar hanging next to the phone. The picture shows a really fine winter scene of snow muffins on a creek flowing past a stately stone grist mill some place in Massachusetts. Life flows on doesn't it?. Birthdays. Annual termite spraying. Lion's Club meetings. Circle dinners. Death. Death? Death?? What's that got to do with life? Why's that word here on your calendar page? The space for Monday the twenty-fourth is filled in with a small uncertain blue script "M. - died." Is that about you?

"Wonderful Life" is written in the square for Thursday the sixth. What's this about? For certain, you had eight-three wonderful years and sixty-two fabulous ones. Your soul mate is in her chair across from me, nodding animated agreement.

Thursday the thirteenth. The square is marked "Lions." Did you really get to Lion's Club just two days before you started that last road trip? You always were a real trooper for the community. I hope you had a good understudy to take over your role. According to this, I notice that you're supposed to attend the Lions meeting tomorrow. I guess someone has told them that you are out of town on an extended trip.

There's a serpentine line starting on the space for Monday the seventeenth, President's Day and ending at Monday the twenty-fourth. "Hospital" is written in the middle of it in that same uncertain blue. I sure hope that wavering line didn't have a lot of pot holes in it. Somehow it seems appropriate for you to start out on President's Day as you were headed for what might be thought of as the ultimate White House.

Is death a bit like child birth? Is the pain forgotten the second the job is finished? I hear that mothers forget their pain in the instant that brand new life proclaims its arrival. Was it this way for you? Was that awful road trip forgotten the minute you saw those majestic gates? Is your pain all gone? Did the One who vanquished death, transforming it into a miraculous gateway to eternity, meet you there?

Remember to write.


Alumni News

I saw your name there.
It was on the list.
I'm certain it was you.

We never knew about the list.
Back then we dreamed.
We were immortal.

No one ever told us.
We believed the lie.
Life lasts forever.

You found out, didn't you?
Winter comes after Indian summer.
Is it cold over there?


We won the conference this year.


19 August, 1996

Dear Mom:

We went by to pick you up for church today and a professional rather proper lady brought you out to meet us. Curiously, we had to sign some papers before they would let you leave with us. I am not sure what I expected but I didn't expect you to be quite as we found you. We weren't really sure how you would want us to act; seeing you in that blue velvet get-up, so we hid behind a bit of comedy. It was hard to keep a straight face when Mark said that you would have to wait out in the car while we went into church. I hope you didn't mind. Don't worry, I managed to avoid cracking an inappropriate smile during the homily when I thought of the dry humor of Mark's one-liner. We actually thought you would have been amused at his fast wit. He may have pushed the envelope a bit with another one of his one-liners, but cut him some slack, he's had a rather bad day, as you might imagine. We had been driving for a while on our way to the church when he said "I don't think I've heard Mom be quiet this long before." It was impossible to not break out into laughter. You may recall you were sitting in the back seat next to me and it had been really quiet in the car.

It's about midnight on Monday. Its strange to think that this is your last night with us, here inside. Mark is scheduled to take you out to Catalina tomorrow for your last trip across the channel. I remember how much you enjoyed that crossing. Today in church I read a story about how much you liked to navigate at the radar and work the radio at night. From what I can tell, those present in the service today really valued hearing this about you.

I am finding some solace in the deep quiet here in the middle of the night. I wandered around in those magnificent, beautiful gardens behind Mark's house for a long time tonight and watched the moon set. You would have rather liked it out there. I went around and touched many of the flowers there, blessing their health. It was a good place to be, yet a sad place tonight. I went to bed without seeing anyone else.

You and I lived so far apart, in so many ways, for so many years. I have a sense of reverence and privilege that for your last night here, we are no longer so far apart and will sleep in the same room. I find on this, your final night here, that I remember the last time I saw you, before you had on that blue velvet we found you in today. You were in that pure white fox coat at the Clemson train station with that mountain of luggage you always carried with you. I never was sure what was in all that stuff. I am glad I have that image of our last time together. I remember you had your hair done up nice. I have happy memories of giving Jan sendoffs from that same small train station in Clemson. Knowing how much you like trains, you would be happy to know that I am helping a kid down the street put together a monster railroad layout. His father let him take over the living room to do this. His mother left three years ago to go the same place you're now headed to.

This seems like it's turning into some ramblings. Just wanted you to have one last note before you left tomorrow. Hope you get a good sleep tonight. I wish you peace and blessing on your trip tomorrow. Oh, by the way, I snitched three red rose buds from one of your flower arrangements at the church when no one was looking. They freshened up nicely when I put them in a decanter I found in our room.

Love,

Craig


Night Crossing

One of the things Mom loved most was yachting. She much preferred the less pretentious term, ‘boating.’ We had many happy memories of dropping anchor at Emerald Bay and Avalon Harbor at Catalina Island off the California coast. A favorite haunt was the Isthmus on the far side of the island. I recall moonlit sorties by dinghy, rafting up with other boats, playing on the sandy beaches. Certainly, some of the grander memories of my growing up were those experiences in those deep blue coastal waters.

One of the high points of Mom’s often difficult life was night cruising in our offshore cruiser to Catalina; her face illuminated by the emerald glow of the radar screen. She enjoyed being navigator and guiding us in the darkness across inky waters. At the mid point of the crossing one is unable to see land in either direction and becomes quite dependent on the compass and radar to provide safe passage at night. In the dense coastal fog that forms after midnight, all that we were able to see by light of day lost its value in the ebony shadows. We had to put our confidence in the instruments.

Mom won’t be making that night cruise any more. Some time ago the boat burned to the water line after an electrical problem and was a total loss. This morning Mom died alone in a hospital room, but she will see those cerulean coastal waters once more as she travels to a far place. At her request, her ashes will be scattered at sea on an August summer day.

The Christian scriptures say that for now we see in a mirror dimly but will one day see with great clarity. A reality for all of us is that we are called to make a final journey on which we are unable to see land either way and are required to trust the instruments. In the turbulent seas of terminal illness and death we have nothing but the compass of Faith and the sextant of Hope, but, they are more than enough. We made that night crossing many times in choppy seas with nothing to go on but a small green blip on a radar screen and a white needle in front of a small luminous ring of numbers. Yet, every time we arrived safely, even when the journey was stormy.

In My Father’s house are many dwelling places. If it were not so, I would have told you. I go now to prepare a place for you.


Jet II

My mother experienced the pioneering era of American aviation and was herself a pilot, dancing in the clouds in canvas-covered biplanes. She even shared a hanger with Amelia Earhart. Over the years she saw the advent of commercial air travel, the coming of age of the jet, and even the accession of space flight. Today, soaring above rainbows is profoundly ordinary for millions. Ferocious fare wars are frequently fought in the skies of America. I myself have flown many hundreds of times to the farthest reaches of the globe; often seeing rainbows from the top side.

It seems to be a reality in the human experience that we come into the world free of fears but become all too proficient at collecting them along the way. Mom lost her ascendant visions of alto-cumulus towers and long ago became fearful of flying. No particular reason really, perhaps reading too carefully, too often, about those rare planes that crashed but forgetting about the vast number that never did. In her last years Mom refused to consider air travel and instead opted for Amtrak. On her rare travels from the west coast, Mom would make a trip to the east coast, visiting family along the way. Her last time on Amtrak, fear got the best of Mom and she was put on a plane at New Orleans and returned home. She never ventured out again except to a hospital and doctor’s office building a mile from where she spent her last years.

Mom died today, in that hospital down the street. Much of my childhood was spent in that same hospital visiting her where she was its best customer. Mom has now pushed beyond her greatest fears, leaving pain behind. She’s no longer afraid and has now embarked on taking the ultimate flight, to that place beyond the reach of jet turbine and airfoil. The Christian scriptures say that we “can do all things through Him who strengthens us.” Mom has taken great strides and moved on, leaving us with the grand possibility of flying above our own fears, to reaching a place where we live in confidence assurance of Him who has gone before us. She’s on the other side now and sees that the only thing to really fear is fear itself; the great thief.

God has not give us a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind.


Changes

Change, the inevitable seasoning of life,
Today I learn my job may be eliminated.

The cerulean benevolence above
gives way to a leaden tempest.

The state names, the city names;
they are becoming foreign.

My young flower wilts in the torrid heat
of neoplastic frenzy.
There is no one to water her garden.

The botanical delights will in days be
but as solid waste for compost.

The polished mahogany shrine will tomorrow
be consigned to the subterranean darkness.

Another is to join my flower at sunset,
catapulted beyond, leaving the concrete ribbon,
commemorated by the flashing of red, white, and blue,

A procession of thousands passes by,
hurrying to their suburban fortresses,
I join the procession with them.

The fortress is secure,
those within have clung to their frantic living,
someone is calling on the second line of the other phone.
There are thirty-one messages on the machine.

A young man slips through the cracks,
no one is with him in a dark place,
as he wonders where my flower went.

There is a sterling moon,
pendant above the leaden tempest.
The dogwoods are in bloom,
tomorrow a solar celebration will greet them.

Easter is near.


Thorn Tree

It's a cerulean day, unusually cool and splendid for early August here in the deep south. Fresh rains have renewed the grass and gardens, washing away the brittle brown dryness of an arid July, leaving an emerald realm. Even the cat that lets me live with her is spunky after an extended lethargy that cats always have during southern summers. Today my mother is scheduled for cremation, her ashes to be scattered over the blue waters of the Pacific. Of course, it's not something I would wish on anyone, yet there does seem to be an order to the day. Often, we get cards at such times that quote from Ecclesiastes assuring us there is a divine order to the great events of life, especially the real hard ones like death. Like having Mother die alone in a hospital room and being three thousand miles away. You know, I almost believe it.

Today I got a rather fine illustration of an important foundational concept of life; that in dying, there is newness of life. We all know that corn must dry out and die down to seed to give rise to next year's corn and that this is true for all living plants. We would never appreciate the beauty of azaleas if they stayed in bloom all year. We would never cherish spring if it were not preceded by harsh winter. One of the great struggles of the human experience is learning to appreciate things before we lose them. This is often tragically true in the death of family members. Even so, in the ashen sorrow of death opportunity presents itself for renewal. In the two short days since Mother's passing, there has been renewal between those estranged for years, appreciating those things once depreciated. In our living we experienced much challenge and difficulty. In mom's death and dying and the settling of her affairs there has been grand calmness, order, and civility. We are discovering diamonds in our own midst.

Two days after Mother died I was at home when the doorbell was rung, heralding a delivery. Normally, I'm not home during the day but my employer graciously suggested I take off several days to work through this time of transition and loss. On the porch was a large empty‑handed woman saying she had a delivery for me and asking if I wanted it outside or in the house. 'It' turned out to be a large Jackson and Perkins rose tree; a variety called 'double delight.' I told her one of my very favorite things to do when I went to Birmingham every month was to visit the rose gardens in the arboretum. Looking at the card I saw that this elegant symbol of life was, in fact, from the very one I so often walk with in those fine rose gardens. I asked the delivery woman what I needed to do in order to assure its survival and blooming. She said "Be sure to put ashes in the soil and water every day."

We can complain that roses have thorns or we can be thankful that thorn bushes have roses.