Tuesday, January 2, 2007

Dearest God,

Our family left about 5:00 p.m. yesterday. Our house sighed after having been with children, grandchildren, and dogs. Our Christmas tree is drooping, ran out of water and sealed a couple weeks ago. The rainy weather prints are stamped on the white ceramic floor. Piles of dirty linens are intermittently being washed. Loads of dishes were washed, put away, pulled out, dirtied, washed again.

Advent, Christmas, and New Year's are over. The joyful memories linger on even though on the first day of the new year we received two calls of deaths. Bill died of cancer. A tax man, he waited to die until January 1 to make a tax break for his wife. Bill thought of everything, his wife told us. Jeanette died of an aneurysm. Deaf, Jeanette conquered cancer, congestive heart disease, diabetes and many other afflictions. We regarded ourselves as sisters since we both had breast cancer.

Life, a good life (or even a bad one, I guess) and death live together. They are two sides of the same coin. At any given moment I can be living or dying, depending on how I choose to interpret the human experience.

In the last few weeks we have lost a number of friends to death, people we loved, many with whom we served in churches. They have moved on, left us all behind, the great design. But even so, the memories of our encounters linger inside us. Their moments with us remain. Ann has died. But I remember some of her words to me. I recall Grace's touch, her hand and her heart touching mine. I recollect Bill's patience during church trials. I am reminded of Al's hugs on Sunday morning. I bring to mind Irv's calls on Sunday night, Ruth's stinging voice when she was upset, Bob's fairness, Betty's smile, Nellie's kindness. Saints, God's family, my memories.

It's been a time to remember and give thanks.

Loving God,
part of my family
is gone.
They have entered
eternity,
that place
where no one goes alone,
yet it is a solitary act.
I remember them
and they live again
in my mind,
in my heart,
in the smile on my face.
Thanksgiving.

Love, Andrea