A Eucharistic feast

I arrived early, so I could have some time alone in Mom’s house before my siblings joined me to divide her possessions. Walking up the driveway, my legs were stiff, as if filled with fear or unresolved grief. The house looked as it always had. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought mom was inside, maybe sitting in the TV room playing solitaire, with her dog nestled against her leg, or puttering in the kitchen preparing tea for us with formal china, fancy cookies, and linen napkins which she adamantly urged me to use. I knew better, though. The house was empty, and I went to find the hidden key and unlocked the door.

My first impression was it smelled like her. Whether from lingering perfume, or years of overcooked casseroles, I couldn’t say. It didn’t matter. It was just “her.” A book she’d been reading was on the coffee table, and her calendar was spread open by the phone with her unmistakable handwriting. There were birthdays written in the top right hand corner of particular days (which she never forgot), and appointments made she didn’t realize she wouldn't keep. I looked at the photographs scattered around the house as if I’d never seen them before. These were the people she loved most, the ones she wanted around her each day. Mementos were also displayed like a museum, a collage of a life lived fully, causing me to stand off to the side taking it all in one last time before the sacred ground was disturbed.

Mom was not her possessions, but I could feel her through her things. The portrait of our father as a young boy hanging over the fireplace spoke of a love that never died, the martini statue with an olive that lit up spoke of her love of a good time, and the hand-painted hippo by a grandson spoke of her uncanny ability to multiply, not divide, her love for all her grandchildren. In the Bible, it speaks of stones shouting. In Mom’s case, her possessions sang, and it was a gift to listen to the familiar song.

I ran my hand along the fabric of her living room couch and noticed a pillow indented from the last time she sat there. I went and laid on her canopy bed, and, like a child learning to swim, wanted to doggy paddle my way back into the safest arms I’ve ever known. A 58 year old father, I felt more like a seven year-old son.

She was gone, but tables, chairs, and china would serve, like bread and wine, as reminders to those who loved her most. “Do this in remembrance of me,” the words go. Her presence would remain. Hearing my siblings arrive, I knew it was time for the Eucharistic Feast.

Story Telling

I’ve always loved stories. In church, or school, I sat up when someone told a story. Just hearing the words “once upon a time” made me eager to hear what was coming next. Stories are easy to understand, and can be remembered for years. I was fortunate to find jobs that allowed me to use my love of stories for good. Stories can help people understand things that lie deep within, sometimes beyond logic’s overwhelming grasp.

I recently realized how long I’ve been telling stories, not all of which have been helpful. The stories I am referring to are the ones I've told myself since I was a child. Looking in the mirror, I told myself stories about my body. Playing sports, I told myself stories about my abilities. And when I was pulled out of class for special attention because of my dyslexia, I told myself stories about my intellect. I doubt I’m alone, but the stories I've told are unique to me, and I’ve carried them for a long, long time.

The stories I’ve told myself (and even shared with others, so they could tell them too) helped make sense of the world and my place in it.  It never dawned on me to questioned the stories I was telling. They've provided a convenient explanation of things, even if they weren't true. I’ve come to see how false some of my stories have been, and how much they’ve held me back.

            Questioning the stories we tell can be disconcerting. What if I’m not who I’ve always said I am? What if I've encased this person in a story that isn't true? What if the way I remember and event isn't completely accurate? Then what? In some sick and twisted way, holding a false narrative feels more comfortable and safe than the uncertainty of questioning long-held stories. Like sitting in a car stuck in a ditch, you at least know where you are! As absurd as that sounds, it’s what many of us do.

            On the other side of our discomfort, however, on the other side of the uncertainty, is new life. I can’t say I know this to be true, because it's all new to me, but I believe it is. With fear and trepidation, I’m beginning to question my stories, I’m reaching down and putting the car in drive. It’s time to get out of the ditch and see what’s down the road.

Want to come along?

Snow Days

Today’s a snow day, and there’s nothing like a snow day. There never has been. I still remember lying in bed hoping for my mother would come down the hall to deliver the news that was above all news: school’s cancelled! Wanting to sleep in, I was always too excited to sleep, and, bundled in snow pants and sweater, I struggled to get the required breakfast down before being allowed to go outside. With the nod from my mother, I’d run outside with my dog and sister and sled down the tiny slope in front of our house. (I think the best “runs” lasted 4.5 seconds.) Even at fifty-eight, the memory stirs the 10 year old within.

Seeing snow fall from the sky and yet make no sound is, itself, enchanting. Watching it gather on evergreen branches is all but a ticket to Narnia, and leaves me expecting to come across a lamppost any minute. Cars become infrequent, and those that drive past are muffled. All the uncollected leaves and fallen branches are covered with nature’s pristine white coat, and my dog celebrates with her version of making snow angels. Businesses and schools are closed, and there’s little to do but enjoy the day. (I do my best to avoid the grocery store, where people push to get the last loaf of bread or gallon of milk. Who ever said those were the essentials on snow days?)

More than the way it looks, what I love most is how a snow day feels. People go for walks, neighbors wave, soup and bread become a feast, and adults sled. In other words, life takes a turn in a different direction. Meetings and phone calls wait. The snow makes rooms inside brighter, and people seem to breath deeper. Instead of living, we remember what a gift it is to be alive.

Maybe that’s the greatest magic of all.