grief — Page 6

That Delicate Balance, Part Two

June 6, 2012 By Diana

She really wanted him to play the piano.

Among the earliest guests to arrive

at the party,

she made her desires known

right away.

And of course, I am not surprised

she felt that way.

She’s been teaching him piano for 14 years.

He was 4 when he started,

and we were gathered to celebrate

his 18th birthday,

and his graduation from high school.

The graduate with his family.

Four.teen.years.

How many people do you know who stick

with anything for that long?

“He’s been working on this one all year long,”

she said.

“I want to get him on tape,”

she said.

But he resisted for quite a while.

As the sun began to set,

about sixty friends and family trickled

in the front door.

The house looked lovely,

the yard, enchanting.

The chatter was friendly,

filled with laughter and warm reminiscence.

A slide show went round and round,

repeating on the big-screen television set,

featuring a lovely collection

of photos from day one until yesterday.

And it was there,

catching glimpses of the past,

that I felt the first sharpness,

the sudden movement of grief and loss

mixing its way right into the middle of

celebration and joy.

Our grandboy as a newborn,

held in the loving arms of his daddy.

His daddy who died almost four years ago.

So much sadness for so long.

And so much joy and happiness, too.

All of it mixed up together in this journey we call life.

Our daughter’s new husband,

strong and kind and good –

such a gift to all of us,

a gift we are grateful for,

right down to our toes.

But another milestone has come and gone.

And Mark was not here to celebrate with us.

That will never change.

And I imagine, we will always feel

that stab of recognition at such times,

that moment of searing sorrow.

It was only a moment.

And soon, the joyful banter

gained volume in corners, at tables,

in the yard, in the house.

And then, cutting through the conversation,

I heard the strains of Chopin.

Familiar music to my ears,

music I heard in my own home, growing up.

Ballade Number One,*

technically difficult,

achingly beautiful.

So I gently led my mother into the living room,

to listen as Luke played this glorious piece.

She sat in a chair placed right in front of the piano.

My father’s piano,

the one he played for years and years.

And I stood behind her,

my hand on her shoulder.

And together, we heard a miracle.

The piano literally sang to us.

Of love and loss,

of hope and discouragement,

of hard work – hours and hours of hard work.

My dad’s,

Luke’s,

our own.

The tears rolled down my cheeks as I

missed my dad,

as I missed Mark,

as I celebrated Luke,

as I thanked God for Karl,

as I thanked God for all of it.

All.Of.It.

Learning to play Chopin takes practice.

Practice, practice, practice.

And learning to hold the tensions,

the mysteries of this life –

to hold them together,

to let them resonate with one another,

to acknowledge the pain and loss,

and to celebrate the gift and joy –

sometimes in the very same instant –

this takes practice, too.

Life is hard.

Life is glorious.

Life is overwhelmingly difficult.

Life is radiantly free.

Life is …

LIFE.

It’s a dance with ever-changing tempo;

it’s a song with shifting harmonies;

it’s a tapestry,

a rich oil painting,

filled with color and with shadow.

Thankfully, we don’t have to navigate
the dance floor on our own;
we don’t have to struggle to sing all the parts.

We are given the gift of one another.

And we are given the gift of Presence.

Loving, gracious Presence.

God – Father, Son and Spirit;

Creator-Redeemer-Counselor –

GOD ALMIGHTY

invites us into the ongoing dance of the Trinity,

the intricately, achingly beautiful song of the universe.

In this life, we cannot yet see the edge of the dance floor,

nor can we hear the resolution of all the chords.

But…

we can know the One who does.

Thanks be to God.

^“And the Father who knows all hearts knows what the Spirit is saying, for the Spirit pleads for us believers in harmony with God’s own will. And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.“

Romans 8:27-28, The New Living Translation

*At the bottom of this post you will find a link to Vladimir Horowitz playing this piece. Horowitz was a hero to my dad – a genius on the piano, especially playing Chopin.
This is an older video of a live performance, but you will get a view of the
technical virtuosity needed to play this music.
I was so moved that I did not think to shift my little Canon camera over to video
to record even a little bit of Luke playing!

Thanks so much, Luke, for those transcendent 10 minutes.

Joining with those same friends with this second part on balance…no buttons this time.
Michelle, Jennifer, Jennifer and Emily. And this time with Laura Boggess, too.

Filed Under: biblical reflection, birthdays, death, family, God's gifts, grief, memoir, personal journey, Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

Remembering with Gratitude: A Life Well-Lived

March 10, 2012 By Diana

Abbot David Nicholas Geraets, OSB
March 4, 1935-March 2, 2012

Entered St. Benedict’s Abbey, Benet Lake Wisconsin
Made monastic profession – September 1, 1957
Ordained to the priesthood – September 29, 1962
Baptized by the Holy Spirit – November 1967 and began
ministry to the charismatic renewal.
Elected First Abbot of Pecos Monastery – April 11, 1973
Abbatial Service – 1973-1992
Conventual Prior in San Luis Obispo 1992-2012

I’m fumbling around for the right earrings.

Packing an overnight bag for a short trip.

My fingers trip and tangle,

the jewelry falls on the counter,

and I feel the tears behind my eyes.

Looking up into the mirror,

I ask myself:

“What does one wear to a wake?

To a Resurrection Mass for a priest,

an abbot,

a mentor,

a friend?

What do I wear?”

And the answer comes,

“Wear your heart.”

And I pack it right up,

lay it in the suitcase,

next to the small jewelry box,

the St. Benedict medal on its chain,

the clear colors he always noticed,

the small, ordinary pieces of an everyday life.

Because that’s all I’ve got, isn’t it?

This heart full of memories,

of words heard and received,

of sweet smiles and heartfelt prayers and gentle marks of the cross.

We drive north,

this drive we’ve taken together for almost two years now.

Ever since my health scare and hospitalization in May of 2010, my husband has chosen to make this trip with me each month.

He takes long walks up and down the steep driveway of the monastery while I sit in the Holy Spirit House with the abbot.

We’ve both come to love this day-long venture together.

And I wonder as the wheels turn and the miles slide by,

will this be the last time?

And I wonder,

is this really why we’re going today?

To say good-bye?

We choose to stay overnight at the coast,

15 minutes from the mortuary and the church.

A good, good choice for us ocean people.

Just walking on the bluffs in the warm wind,

it blows courage into our souls.

We get there early,

the mortuary where the vigil will be held.

Because that, I learn, is what a monastic wake is all about.

It’s a time for call and response singing and reading,

for sharing memories and stories,

for keeping vigil with one another

on the eve of the final good-bye.

A short, strong nun leads the sung part of our prayer time.

And she is gifted, so gifted.

Gracious, confident, calling us to join the song with the lifting of her arms.

I relax into the music, letting the Spirit sink deep.

The brothers read lines from St. Gregory about St. Benedict.

We sing the “Sucsipe” – the song sung by every Benedictine priest at the time of vows and renewal of vows:

“Receive me, O Lord,

as you have promised

and I shall live.

Do not disappoint me in my hope.”

Can I just tell you how deeply

and strongly

my soul and spirit resonate with this kind of worship?

Simple melodies,

heartfelt words,

the ability to be silent without tension.

Too many churches in my life do not know how to do silence. At all.

These warmhearted, generous Catholic friends?

They know how.

And the next day, it is the same.

This time a formal Resurrection Mass,

complete with the presiding Bishop of the diocese and a trailing line of priests from all kinds of places,

sitting together, joining their voices throughout the litany.

“A motley crew,” the bishop named them.

And they are that.

But I think perhaps these are a brave crew, too.

Standing and singing and praying together for a departed friend.

The same nun leads the singing, serving as cantor extraordinaire.

The scriptures are chosen from those David loved –

the Shepherd’s psalm

(which we sing and I am undone, just undone),

Habakkuk 3 – the vision will come…wait for it

Revelation 21 – behold, I make all things new…

John 3 – unless you be born from above…

And his friend and partner in work,

Father Ray Roh preaches a magnificent memorial sermon.

I am blessed, grateful, aware that this was not an easy task to take.

Communion is moving, as it always is.

All stand, in prayer and attention, until each person is served.

And we sing, we sing.

New to this world of Catholic gatherings,

we assumed a 2:00 service would be followed by a reception of desserts, to which we happily contributed a big bowl of beautiful fresh berries and some cookie bars.

Oh, no.

A full lunch spread – gorgeous and yummy looking.

Except, of course, we had eaten lunch.

So we watched and listened and felt the love vibrating throughout the Parish Hall.

And then we washed out our bowl,

loaded the car

and headed home.

Encouraged, exhausted, fed.

Grateful, grieving, content in a strange and satisfying way.

We are left marveling that we

never knew such richness existed in this Catholic space,

that we were so narrow in our view of life,

of worship,

of God.

And the simple, haunting melody of that psalm,

that’s what we each remembered,

that’s what we continue to draw on.

Here is a YouTube version of Marty Haugen’s beautiful liturgical rendition of Psalm 23.

The response comes first – to teach the congregation.

Then the verses, followed by the response each time.

Watch, savor, listen, SING:

All I can say,

all I can sing,

all I can pray is
THANK YOU, LORD.

THANK YOU.

We’re heading out of town for a while in the morning. I hope to have a chance to link this with Michelle at “Graceful” and with Jen at “Finding Heaven.” But I’ll publish it now and link to it on Facebook in case I can’t find reliable internet service while we’re away.

Thanks to so many of you for your kind words, your support and encouragement and your prayers. Oh, most definitely, your prayers.
I also tagged onto both Laura’s this week – Barkat at “Seedlings in Stone,” and Boggess at “The Wellspring,” and at Ann Voskamp’s Wednesday round-up. And today, I’ll tag in at Bonnie’s place as she’s taking six weeks off to finish her book! And at “Journey to Ephiphany,” who has so kindly taken on Emily Weirenga’s weekly log-in:

Filed Under: grief, hope, memoir, personal journey, Spiritual Direction, Sunday Reflections, Travel

Saying Goodbye

January 5, 2009 By Diana

It was getting on toward sunset as we walked across the rocky beach out to the pier. Thanksgiving weekend brought our family together on Catalina Island, at Campus by the Sea, the InterVarsity camp at Gallagher’s Cove. The weather was clear, beautiful and cold. Our gathered family and friends were serious and quiet, yet so glad to be together. The service was simple, even elegant. Our daughter had done a lovely job of planning, her sons spoke lovingly of their dad, we heard words of encouragement from scripture, some of them read by his handsome nephews.

All during that day, strange and wonderful things happened. Roils of fish just offshore in the cold Pacific brought large numbers of sea birds, including cormorants by the hundreds. A monarch butterfly flitted its brilliant wings in the back of the canyon. As we moved from the firepit, where the first part of the service happened, and walked across to the pier, where it would conclude, a solo great blue heron landed on the pier railing, watching our progress and taking off with his own unique salute as we began to approach. Then, just as we all assembled at the end of the pier, a lone pelican skimmed over the water, coming directly toward us. And as we finished saying goodbye that late afternoon, the dying sun sent soft colors toward the south, lighting on the clear white sail of a single sailboat. Mark would have loved that! We were there because he had asked us be there: together, remembering him with gratitude, thanking God for his life and gathering strength from one another as we stepped out into a different kind of life, one without him in it.

These colorful kayaks lined the edge of the beach, and as we were walking back up the canyon for dinner, I snapped this picture, hoping to capture some small sense of the beauty to be found in small, unexpected places. That’s what we’re all trying to do these days – find small, personal snapshots of God’s grace at work in a world which has been so profoundly altered, so painfully and permanently transformed for us all. Someone that weekend gathered heart-shaped rocks and spread them out on a picnic table for us all to see. Many of us tucked one away in a pocket or a suitcase, a tactile talisman of a memorable place, a memorable day.

Thanks be to God for his gracious gift of Mark, a good man, loving husband, devoted dad, son, brother, uncle and friend. Peace be to his memory.