After sorrow has settled into your soul, it loops off for a while until it reconnects itself for reasons both random and predictable.  Predictably, there are times when the calendar is not a friend.  Significant days are given over to grieving until, one year, you find yourself sighing instead of crying.

Random outbursts of grief can accompany a smell, a song, a smile, a photo, a familiar gesture, or some momento that revives a dormant memory.  The most perplexing experience is when sorrows, like sea-billows, roll right over you for no reason at all.  

I have learned that grief relative to my mom’s death touches down during major life transitions.  (She died almost 40 years ago when I was 10.)  The life transition taking place is the impending  marriage of my second son.  Recently I awoke in tears, disoriented and disheveled.   I lay in bed and wondered why I felt so sad. The reason was simple: I missed  my mom. 

I yearn for one moment with my mom on the glorious day of my son’s wedding.  I long to stand shoulder to shoulder with her, my arm linked with hers, our hands clasped together, as we watch “our boy” make his marriage vows.

In that sense, my mom had a part in raising this child of mine, this son whom I thought of as my “sandpaper” child. Of course, I was his “sandpaper” mom.  Friction racked up frequent flyer miles in the flights of words that traveled between us.  At one point it took faith to look forward to a future relationship between us which would be characterized by friendship.

At some undefined period, four or five years ago, the Spirit of God leaned down and blew off the grit, the grime, the crumbs — all the residue from years of sandpaper rubbing.  He licked His finger, as it were, and polished the surfaces.  He gave us repentance, for we both needed it.  To our surprise there was a smoothness of affection, an ease between us, a fellowship that grew as he became more independent.

On Carson’s wedding day we will rejoice in the love between husband and wife; we will give thanks to the Giver of all good gifts; we will praise God for a son and a (new) daughter who both love the Lord.  At some point I will whisper a personal prayer of thanksgiving for this son of mine, for the reconciliation between us, for the growing love and friendship we share.

My new daughter-in-law has thought of a wonderful way to give thanks for the heritage they have received.  She is setting up a table at the reception with six framed photos: pictures of the parents of the bride and groom on their wedding day, and wedding photos of all four sets of grandparents.  In an age of rugged individuality, it is refreshing to see the respect and honor given to parents and grandparents.

The Apostle’s Creed says:  I believe in the resurrection of the body; and the life everlasting.

I do believe there will be a day, one fine day, when my mom, my son and I will embrace, squeeze each other and throw our heads back and laugh the kind of laughter that begins down deep and emerges in a glorious melody. Sorrow won’t exist, even as a distant memory.  We will beckon others to join us: the beautiful grandma my son has grown up with, the wife of his youth, my husband, the grandfather I never knew, my son’s grandchildren, and their children’s children.  Together we will dance and sing and celebrate the greatness of God.

     

The young girl sat up in her bed, rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, threw her hair off her face in one easy motion, and scrambled out of bed.  It was early Saturday morning. The house was hushed and still.  With the stealth of a burglar she tiptoed down the hallway and carefully descended the creaky stairs.

After some major disruptions in the household, the ten-year old clung to the solid comfort of this familiar routine.  She turned on the stereo, adjusted the tuner, and turned the volume at the lowest possible setting. Grabbing some pillows off the sofa, she plopped on the floor inches from the speaker, flat on her stomach, her elbows in the pillows and her hands cupped under her chin.

The next two hours brought radio programs for children.  Thirsty for story, she drank in the drama while the rest of the house slept. Midway through the last program the jangle of the telephone ringing pierced the quiet.  Like quicksilver she jumped up and grabbed the receiver before the phone rang again.

“Hello,” her high childish voice could barely be heard.

“Hi! Is your mommy there?”  the other voice trilled.

“Mmm…no,” she whispered tentatively.

“Would you leave her a message, please?”

“’kay…,” her voice wavered.

“The chair she had reupholstered is finished and is ready to be picked up at the shop.”

 “Thanks. Good-bye.”

She replaced the receiver and returned to her position on the floor.

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~

The liturgy of the next Saturday was the same as the first.  The family slept while the young girl listened to Aunt Bee, Ranger Bill, and Sailor Sam.  She took every precaution  to listen to her radio without waking them.  Once again, the loud ring of the telephone shattered the solitude. Once again, she darted to the dining room side table and grabbed the phone before the second ring.

“Hello.”

 “Hello!  I’d like to speak to Nellie Harper!”

 The girl paused; she finally said, “She’s not here.”

 “Well, listen hon, this is the upholstery shop calling, and I called last week and left a message.  I told her when she brought it in that it would be ready in two weeks, and this chair has been in the shop for a month now, and I really need your mom to pick up this chair.  Would you puh-lease let her know?”   Her voice was a mixture of cloying sweetness and ill-concealed irritation.

 “Hmmm.”  came out in hushed tones.

 “Thanks, hon, I really appreciate it. You have a good day, now.”

~     ~     ~     ~      ~     ~

A week went by.  The light was lasting longer, birds were chirping in the trees, and  school was winding down.  Summer had almost arrived, though the markers of seasonal change were little noted in that house.  Once again, the young girl woke up early Saturday morning, worked her way around the squeaky steps and kept her rendezvous with the radio.

She wasn’t surprised when the phone rang; she answered it as she had done before.

“Hello,” spoken softly, so softly.

 “Hi!”  spoken in the tone of one eager to check off items on her list.

 They both recognized the other’s voice; they both had the script memorized.

 “Honey, look, is your mommy home this morning?” came the coaxing plea.

 “No.”   The single syllable dangled in space with nothing to support it.

 Exasperated, the woman on the other end of the line raised her voice.

“Well, where is she?  I’ve called, I’ve left messages, and still Nellie has not picked up her chair.”

She clipped each word shorter than a buzz cut.

The moment of truth could be delayed no longer.  The words that were stuck in the child’s throat, words that could not be spoken the previous Saturdays, words that were impossible to say, even today, were forcefully dislodged.

 “Ummm………she………well……..ummmm.   She died.”

 “Ohmygosh, she died? She died?  Your mommy died? What happened?  Oh, honey, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.  Was she in an accident?  She died?  I had no idea.  Oh, honey, I’m so very, very sorry.  Oh dear.  I–am–so–sorry.”

 “No…..she…….just……died.”

The silence was more uncomfortable for the girl than for the woman.  She sensed the shock, the awkward drop, the conversational vertigo of the voice on the other end.  The ten-year old knew she would have to bridge the gap and end this call.  The girl found her voice.

“It’s all right.  You didn’t know.  It’s okay. No one told you.  I’ll tell my daddy about the chair when he wakes up, okay?  He’ll come to your shop and get the chair.  It’s okay.  You didn’t know… Good-bye.”

She walked back to the stereo, turned the radio off, sat down on the floor and sobbed.