Blessed Memory

But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have died.

I Thessalonians 4:13-14

Last Monday, May 18, I visited the cemetery for the first time since my Mother's funeral. I was on vacation, on my way to Illinois, but I wanted to spend some time visiting with Mom. It was a warm, sunny morning, quite a contrast from the rainy day when we buried her. My wife, Linda, and I spent some time admiring the breathtaking scenery. Mom is buried in a section called the Garden of Serenity, which is a very appropriate name for this section. It is toward to rear of the cemetery, away from the highway traffic. The grass is a lush green, and there are plenty of trees in the background. The area must have been a farm at one time, nonetheless, it is very tranquil and lends itself to having a conversation with a dear, departed loved one.

I happened to have in my glove compartment, several ceramic "coquís" which I had bought as souvenirs when we vacationed in Puerto Rico back in 2007. The coquí is a frog that is unique to Puerto Rico and not found anywhere else. I took two of them and placed them in the area where the headstone will eventually be, next to a plant my sisters had planted on Mother's Day.

It was a pleasant visit. I felt at ease in the presence of the freshly covered grave. The rich, brown dirt made it easy to distinguish, almost making me hope the grass never grows over, so as to keep its distinctiveness. Mom always liked to stand out, to be the center of attention. At this point in this area, she is. It is still so hard to imagine her not being around.

Numbness

So you have pain now; but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you.

John 16:22 (NRSV)

Despite my best intentions, I couldn’t bring myself about to write something on Mother’s Day, which was yesterday, May 10th. It was not only the first Mother’s Day without my mother, but it was also exactly one-month to the day that she died.

Surprisingly, I was pretty composed throughout my two worship services. Only once, when a parishioner who hadn’t seen me since the death approached me to express his condolences, did I come close to crying or being overcome by sadness. I did mention to the congregation that it had been one-month at the time that I wished them a Happy Mother’s Day.

The English congregation which I served yesterday, First Lutheran Church, had a breakfast for mothers before their service; while La Trinidad, my parish, had a luncheon after our worship. So I was bookended by reminders of celebrations I will no longer share with my own mother.
Years ago we used to take Mom out to dinner on this day. Eventually she became weary of the ritual and insisted on cooking for us, something which I considered ridiculous. A couple of times after I began my ministry and could no longer join them for dinner, she came to church to worship with us. It was as much a joy for me to have her see me in action, as it was a source of pride for her. I remember specifically three years ago that she met some of my parishioners for the first time and they were enthralled with her. Recently that couple returned after a long absence and almost immediately they asked about Mom. It was on Palm Sunday and I had to share with them the unfortunate news that she was in the last stages of life. They were deeply grieved to hear the information.

Two of my sisters went to visit the gravesite yesterday and spent some time talking to her and praying over her. My plan is to go next Sunday after I finish with my pastoral duties.
I guess numbness is the only way I can describe the way I feel at this time. It’s as if I’m merely going through the motions and barely getting things done. This is probably a dangerous admission to make for someone in my position, but there is no sense of enthusiasm, no feeling of enjoyment. My hope is to recapture that at some point, but when?

I close with a poem by César Vallejo, a peruvian poet, which somewhat approaches what I am feeling at this time. I found the English translation so I will publish both it and the Spanish.

Los heraldos negros

por César Vallejo.

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes ... ¡Yo no sé!

Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos,

la resaca de todo lo sufridose

empozara en el alma... Yo no sé!

Son pocos; pero son... Abren zanjas obscuras

en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte.

Serán talvez los potros de bárbaros atilas;

o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte.

Son las caídas hondas de los Cristos del alma,

de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema.

Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones

de algún pan que en la puerta del horno se nos quema.

Y el hombre... Pobre... pobre! Vuelve los ojos, como

cuando por sobre el hombro nos llama una palmada;

vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido

se empoza, como charco de culpa, en la mirada.

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes... Yo no sé!

Black Messengers

There are in life such hard blows . . . I don't know!

Blows seemingly from God's wrath; as if before them

the undertow of all our sufferings

is embedded in our souls . . . I don't know!

There are few; but are . . . opening dark furrows

in the fiercest of faces and the strongest of loins,

They are perhaps the colts of barbaric Attilas

or the dark heralds Death sends us.

They are the deep falls of the Christ of the soul,

of some adorable one that Destiny Blasphemes.

Those bloody blows are the crepitation

of some bread getting burned on us by the oven's door

And the man . . . poor . . . poor! He turns his eyes around, like

when patting calls us upon our shoulder;

he turns his crazed maddened eyes,

and all of life's experiences become stagnant, like a puddle of guilt, in a daze.

There are in life such hard blows . . . I don't know!

Wallowing

When the devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time.

Luke 4:13 (NRSV)

I had a bad day last Friday--the three week mark of my mother's death. What surprised me was the suddenness and the force with which the sadness hit me. It was totally unexpected. I imagine myself as someone who is equipped to deal with these bouts of grief, given how frequently others share their grief with me. I have been trained to look for signs and indications of how others are coping and how they're progressing. But none of this training was focused on myself, or perhaps I didn't pay attention in class the day that was covered. In view of that experience, I am now at least aware that I will again experience that "dark night of the soul" at some point in the future. It will be interesting to see how I deal with it.

Anyway, I came upon this poem by one of my favorite poets, Emily Dickinson, which captures somewhat the way I have become observant of grief, both my own and others.

I measure every grief...

I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.

I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.

I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.

I wonder if when years have piled--
Some thousands--on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;

Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.

The grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies,--
Death is but one and comes but once
And only nails the eyes.

There's grief of want, and grief of cold,--
A sort they call 'despair,'
There's banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.

And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly yet to me
A piercing comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,

To note the fashions of the cross
Of those that stand alone
Still fascinated to presume
That some are like my own.

- Emily Dickinson

I miss you, Mom.