With You in Spirit

During the last few days I have reflected on how strange it has been not to have heard Mom's voice on the phone wishing me "Happy Birthday!" More than that I have been so grateful to God that we have had both our parents, knowing that so many other family members and friends have already lost one or both of their parents, some sadly quite a long time ago.

Never have the words "with you in Spirit" meant so much.

And what a time to be treasured it was that in the two and a half months last fall before Mom passed away . . . when George, Jennifer, Michael and I -- and some of our kids and some of our grand kids physically (and all of them in Spirit) -- were able to be with Mom and Dad . . . and with each other.

Each type of situation that is filled with strong emotions seems to open a channel to similar times of our lives when the same emotions reigned. Somehow re-visiting those past events in memory through the lens of feeling helps to put my life in a new perspective.

It seems almost like there is a large beautiful table in a lovely room with high ceilings and large leaden-glass windows looking out on a garden. And on the table are beautiful China figurines, each one depicting a scene from my life, or an achievement. Or a milestone.

There's one with a long-haired young woman holding a tiny infant wrapped up in a beautifully crocheted baby blanket, the mother smiling tenderly and looking attentively into her darling' up-turned face.

And there's one with three kids and a dog out on a lake with a red and white row boat, laughing and splashing each other with the oars and their hands.

The one in the middle to the left is of a teenager in civvies saluting his mom as she is about to get into the car after dropping him off at the US Marine Recruiting Station.

The figurines of all the weddings are there, too.

And of the memorial services, but not so much those of the passings, at least they are not as big as those depicting loving memories.

Strangely enough there are no figurines depicting hard hearts or pain, none for anger or arguments, none for misunderstandings or betrayals.

Those parts of our lives are too difficult to forget sometimes, and there should be ways to let them go and only remember the positive and loving acts, the joy-filled times.

Don't you think so, too?

I keep remembering snatches of beautiful words written by our cousin Michael during the three years he fought against the brain tumor that took him away from us much too soon. One passage was concerning forgiveness when he asked everyone he loved to make peace with him if they still held anything against him. And he asked for forgiveness and released anyone who may have felt hurt by him -- or who he may have wronged.

Through his letters and through those I wrote back to him, I felt like I was able in a way to travel with him on that final journey in a very remote way, but close in Spirit. (There that is again . . .)

It ended up being from a dgreat geographical distance since I went to Kazakhstan about a week after I found out about the brain tumor, and at that time had been told that Michael might only have about three months to live.

Now that I have written the above, I am reminded of other passings. Certainly the first relatives who passed when we were children, and then cousins and friends who went on before us when they were much too young and we weren't in any way prepared. In addition as the years went by and I got back in touch with friends from childhood and from other eras of my life, hearing of the passing of parents and siblings, and even sadder in some cases, of children.

Now I may becoming mauldlin, and if so, please excuse me. I don't mean to emphasized the grief, but to be grateful for the love and shared experiences, for the jokes and laughter, for the games and slumber parties and road trips, for the movies and lunches and dinners . . and breakfasts.

So, as I wrote that, the image of one last memory for tonight flickered across my mind. I will indulge myself by relating it to you.

In the spring of our last year in high school the time-honored "Senior Ditch Day" was scheduled by the usual suspects. It was organized in such a way that each student who had a car or could use a parent's vehicle went around to pick up as many fellow students who lived nearby when it was still several hours before dawn. The organizers planned well, and when the Ditchers sleepily disembarked from the crowded automobiles, they found they had arrived at a beach on Lake Michigan where there were already bonfires and pinic blankets replete with a breakfast feast.

Many of us were very close friends and the Spirit of our class included an easy comradery and some tight-knitted relationships.

We kept each other warm with more than jackets and blankets as we watched a lovely sunrise out of the Great Lake with the sounds and smells of wood burning and popping, the brightness of the flames fading as the dawn yielded to the power of the sun's light.

It seemed like we were already missing one another despite how anxious we were to get the school year over and charge off to our summer jobs and then on to college for most of us, onto whatever else we would find on the way to adulthood for the rest of us. For all of us, really.

And a few days ago I was looking through photos of children and grandchildren of those friends from high school. Our Fortieth Reunion almost tewo and a half years ago and the benefits of social media like FB has allowed us to share so much.

I thought about the stories I know now about so many of us. I wonder if we could even have imagined so much of how our lives have been -- or what the world has been like if we could have tried to tell one another what we thought it all would be during that dawn picnic so long ago in the early spring of 1970.

Sometimes I think, "My goodness! Did all that really happen?"

All that and more. Because we do "choose to forget," as the lyrics of the song "Memories" from the movie "The Way We Were" reminds us.

The very gifted writer, playwright and philosopher -- and Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel, in commenting about the relationship of the Divine -- the G-d of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob to the Jewish People has written that he believes that the Lord loves stories.

If so, that must be where we get it.

The only thing is, though, that the stories are not so well loved as the people in them.

I believe that the cruelty and the terrible ways that human beings can treat one another, animals, and creation itself must tear G-d's heart out in so many ways.

But I also believe that G-d Who is Love must weep with joy at times when we show love in sacrificial or otherwise amazing ways.

I think the extent of the violence and hatred as well as the extent of the loving and faithful acts might even sometimes be shocking and surprising to our Creator. (Never mind the omniscient characteristic for a few minutes.)

It may be something to think about, anyway.

What would it mean to you to truly believe that the Loving Creator of the Universe not only knows your story, but cares a great deal about everything you have done, everything that has been done to you, and everything that has happened, is happening and will happen to you? And what would it mean if you believed that G-d has wonderful plans for you and intends to use everything for good in your life? And what would it mean to you to believe that the Lord of All wants you to allow Him to love you and take care of you and everyone you love?

If you don't know the answers to those questions, would you like to know?

There is a Way, and His Name is Jesus.

Really.

Truly.

Absolutely.

Won't you open your heart and take a chance?

I pray you will, and will be glad to help you in any way I am able to do that.


Kathleen Ware Harris  © 2013
kwharris777@gmail.com