A Thread of Hope

             Lights flicker like lightning bugs across the arena as the crowd clamors for pictures.  The soft notes of a baby grand play in the semi-darkness of the stage, leaving me breathless. 

            “No more sorrow, no more pain.  I will rise on eagle’s wings…”

            Suddenly, I’m no longer in the middle of a crowd enjoying a concert, but in a silent hospital room, watching my grandfather as he sleeps.  His hands rest at his sides, finally still after hours of fidgeting, and his dark grey hair stands in all directions.  His pale face seems tense even in sleep, and I wonder if he feels pain.

            The doctors said he wouldn’t last the night.

            Sitting in the chair at his beside, I stroke his hand, feel the slow, weak pulse at his wrist.  I don’t know it now, but when he’s no longer near, that’s what I’ll miss.  Just holding his large, soft hand. 

            Music gently enters from the room across the hall.  Soft piano notes, a sweet mellow voice.  I can’t hear the words, but the music itself eases the tension in my neck.  It gets louder, as if someone has turned up the volume.

            “I will rise when He calls my name.  No more sorrow, no more pain.  I will rise, on eagle’s wings…”

            I cry, unable to block out the image.  That’s what he’ll be doing by morning if the doctors are right.  He’ll be dancing - despite several years of immobility, reading – no longer troubled by double vision.  He’ll be whole.  Complete.  New.  Alive. 

            How can I begrudge him that?  My constant prayer shifts.  I don’t ask for just physical healing, but that his broken body be lifted and renewed. 

And that I accept the pain of his absence.

When morning comes, he hasn’t changed, he’s still in that bed, and I’m still clinging to a thread of hope. 

Years later, I hear the same voice ringing out in the arena, the same notes float across the stage that drifted into his hospital room, the same peace that stilled my frenzied spirit.  With a wish that I could visit him and cling to his hand, I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and sing.

Goodbye

           This morning I awoke to Smokey’s piercing cries as he leaped onto my bed.  Smokey, my eight year old black cat with long silky hair, has been my alarm clock every morning since we brought him home at seven weeks.  He loves his canned food, which I give as I get ready for school, and if I don’t, he cries until I do. 

            Today, however, when I feed him, he simply looks into the bowl and then back up at me.  Then he slowly walks over to me, not in his usual strut but as if it hurts to lifts his paws, and rubs against my leg.  For five minutes, we sit on the floor in the middle of the room and cuddle.  It dawns on me.  He’s not hungry this morning.  He needs the comfort as much as I do.

            He’s grieving.

            This week we said goodbye to my other baby, a grey and white shorthair with whom I fell in love during second grade.  Trixie, so called due to my favorite book series at the time, was one of several kittens born at my great-grandmother’s.  My grandmother gathered all of them and began to give them away, but when I visited, this tiny fur ball leaped into my lap and wouldn’t let go.  She chose me.  I brought her home several days later and introduced her to the family. 

            When Smokey came, she welcomed him in, not knowing that for the rest of her life he’d chase and torture her incessantly.  Smokey’s unique.  He’s loveable, snuggling up one minute, yet ornery the next, trying to open the kitchen cupboard to get his favorite food, Ritz crackers.  He’s the annoying little brother.  He wasn’t always kind to Trix, so I never expected this reaction.

            But death has a way of opening our eyes.  For him, it’s that she’s not here.  Her absence has affected us all.  No longer does she sit in my lap as I write my papers or nestle in beside me when I read at night.  She isn’t snuggled up on top of my arm when I wake up in the morning.  She won’t be.  I knew that Tuesday evening when we took her to the vet.  Smokey did not.  He went on as if life was fine and dandy, without any fear of losing someone he cares about.

            How often do I do that with the people around me?  My brother, mom, grandparents, cousins….I just expect them to always be there.  But that’s not how life works.  Sometimes things happen, and I need to embrace every second I have with them. 

            

In the Small Stuff

            Such a beautiful thing, the mind of a child. 

            I stepped into church this morning with regret.  After waking up with only four hours of sleep, I was a walking zombie.  I wasn’t sure if I could even remember the children’s lesson for the week, let alone teach it to preschoolers.  But sometimes God is in the little details. 

            Miss Barb and I taught five angels in the five-year-old class.  Just as we had set up the activities for the morning, the children began to arrive.  Allie, a quiet blonde with pale blue eyes, wanted to build an alphabet puzzle.  Jaylen came and helped.  Ryan drew a picture of a pig, the animal in this week’s story.  Allison brought an interactive game that reminded me of my brother’s old Playstation Color, and played until Miss Barb had her put it away “so she wouldn’t lose it.” 

            The last to arrive was Mwiata, a dark beauty in a pleated black skirt and white and black striped sweater, looking as though she had just walked out of a business meeting or law firm.  She handed me a bag of valentines to hand out at dismissal before letting loose.  With a glance at the lesson, she recreated the entire Parable of the Prodigal Son: the son left to hunt for buried treasure, and when he finally found it, he spent it all on chocolate chip cookies.  He acquired a “terrrrrrible” stomachache and went home to his father, who took care of him until he felt better.

            I lost my heart today.

            It happened again a little later when we met the other classes in the small chapel for the large group lesson.  The storyteller had piled boxes to show the height of the tallest man in the world.  As soon as it caught the sight of Max, a three year old with a brown bowl cut, he stood, stepped directly in front of the cardboard tower, and breathed deeply. 

            “Wow.”

            What a lesson!  How often am I in awe of the ordinary?  How often do I consider the wonder of everyday life?  Lately, I haven’t taken the time to see the marvels around me.  On a morning like today, when I considered calling off, I found myself with an unexpected feeling.  Gratitude.

Sunrays

“A happy family is but an earlier heaven.” ~ George Bernard Shaw

            Someone once told me that heaven is synonymous with perfection.  Having never been there (yet), I couldn’t really say for sure.  With all the sickness, pain, and death of this world, I can hardly imagine perfection.

            Today my attempt at homework is unsuccessful, certainly not meeting my standards.  I find myself unable to write or concentrate on any of my assigned reading, likely due to the few hours of sleep I’ve acquired this week.  I wore the weight of this world in my heart for the past seven days and couldn’t find rest even with all the praying.  Internal pressures/fear mixed with worries for family and friends led to countless hours of lying, awake and very conscious, in bed.  When sleep refused to come, I’d pull out a book or my computer and try to find some piece of mind.  It didn’t work.

           

            Despite all of that, I continue to try to finish something. Get it done now, and you watch the game on Sunday, or play with the cousins, or visit with Grammy after church.  Or maybe even sleep in tomorrow.  That’s what I tell myself anyway. 

           

Suddenly, I smile a little, a ray breaking through my night.

In the next room, I hear laughter, full, loud laughter that can only be my family.  One giggles, like a young child – not like the young man of eighteen that he is, and one sort of guffaws, just like her father always did.  A joyful squeal.  An uncharacteristic snort.  The dogs bark, unable to be excluded from the fun.

Sometimes I forget that I have glimpsed heaven.