The Gift Of Rest

A mother rocks her elfin baby, this unsettled infant nestled upon her chest, she croons a lullaby and rocking chair creaks a tune of its own. Moments pass and she slowly bends an ear, the whimpering cries have ceased; she stands carefully, gently places baby in the crib, tip-toes from the brightly painted room. Both are tired, both worn thin, both need rest. 

A husband enters the front door, it's six o'clock and he kicks off his shoes, the day brutal, his job a never-ending cycle of deadlines, of frustration. He opens the refrigerator, a whoosh of cold air greets his thirst, an invitation to visit his past. His outstretched arm pauses mid-reach, a memory, a flash of what was caused him to softly close the door, the bottle inside untouched, his victory unsullied. The rest he has found envelops his tired frame, and a knowing smile washes over his face.

This elderly man, he leans against his deluxe walker, his feet moving slow but steady. A golden sun kisses his back, the spring air gently bushing his heavily lined cheek, he looks over at his wife who keeps up her own pace, twin walkers ushering the two down the sidewalk. After a few blocks they park their walkers, set the brakes, maneuver their tired old frames into position, taking a break on the cushioned seats. This old man, he steals another breath of this wild and crazy world, looks at his bride and grins wide. We found it, he says. She nods a yes, their blue-veined hands clasp, an affirmation of Truth, and they rest.

***

We traveled to the beach for my birthday this year, sixty-one years of living and breathing his glorious air. Moments of exhilarated inhales, seasons of sobbing gasping breaths, these latter years a plethora of joyful, thankful, elongated exhales. And in between all those exhausted, stale, victorious, amazing breaths we are gifted, is this invisible hand, gently caressing a shoulder, cupping a tear, carrying the afflicted. We cannot see, we forget to lean, we trod unsteady, stumble across Grace, and I keep hearing him whispering, Rest.

We want to run fast from those tsunami waves of life, we are undone, yet we stand upright and brace ourselves against the hard, how is this so? 

We do this thing called living, we take the next step together, shouldering the burdens, inching the way forward, yearning for that rest to come, all the while he radiates Grace. Our eyes shutter wide open, and that luminous glare is too beautiful, we want to run and hide. Yet our trembling hands unfurl. We look up.

Perhaps the key is guiltless play, becoming like those children he mentions so often. All innocent and trusting. Those crashing waves now stilled, foamy ripples of salt water peacefully lapping the shore, all fear has disappeared. The eyelids close softly, we say thanks.

***

Maybe when I am an old woman, my husband and I will park ourselves on a stretch of glistening sand, our two hands with skin like parchment paper will clasp with understanding.The seagulls soar above, a small baby giggles close by, her mama scoops her up, plants kisses all over that unblemished skin. And a young gentleman will stride by, purposeful yet relaxed, a bottle of ice-cold water he carries, a faint hum of a refrain wafts in the salty sea air. My husband and I, we shade or eyes against the golden sun all pregnant with promise, we nod a yes, we inhale deep into our aged lungs, together we exhale into that glorious accepting atmosphere.

We are at Rest.

How To Hold A Grace Sandwich

It's there in a majestic sunset hugging the western horizon, a slow inhale, a thoughtful pause, you remember. It's in a photograph that takes you hostage, throat constricting tight, a moment in time resurrected. It's in a song playing on your iPod, it comes and your heart says leave me be, I still have work to do.

Three weeks ago we said goodbye to my father-in-law, this old man, he passed peacefully at the age of ninety-four. During his latter years his mind grew dim, thoughts and names failed, limbs weakened and life began its slow fade. My own father suffered from Alzheimer's, I understood this loss, this dementia which robs the mind like a jewel thief, grieves loved ones as they try to navigate this new normal. It's a process, this letting go, saying good-bye without the words. Loving big, accepting what is, regardless. 

Just two days after my father-in-law passed, our family began the trek to his grandson's wedding in Montana. Hearts heavy as our loaded luggage, we journeyed the distance to celebrate this new beginning, two lives entwining, us eager to witness the celebration and gather as family. And as I flew part way to join the rest of our group, those moments in the plane, they play in my mind like a verse from a favorite Psalm, me having thought all that grief had already washed away. Him tugging heart strings, a song on my iPod, and the tears, they welled at first causing me to glance around, can anyone see my sadness?  Have angels hijacked this plane? My make-up is smudging! I swiped my eyes, turned up the volume, surrendered to the lyrics, the wafting memories. 

Grief shows itself in its own fashion, unscheduled, unrehearsed, our vulnerable selves at its glorious mercy.

And when our daughter presented all us family women, bride and granddaughter included, with necklaces crafted from my mother-in-laws old jewelry; I cradled it  in my palm, counted this a grace sandwich, a precious gift in the middle of our sad.

Maybe eyes that see from that place above and within, perhaps they behold a perfect understanding, a knowing that speaking goodbye is never the end. Sandwiched in between all that living and loss is that deep peace inside the pumping heart, I was loved, I loved, I am loved, I will always do my best to love. 

My husband, he waved happy from great heights in Montana, surrounded by beauty, family, mourning suspended in the moment. I held the camera still, wondering at all that amazing grace, hungry for another sandwich. 

And clicked.