An empty doorway and a maple leaf."
-- Archibald MacLeish, "Ars Poetica"
“Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak
whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.”
-- William Shakespeare
Give sorrow words. But which words shall I chose? The happy words of the past or the sorrowful ones that present me every morning? Shall I tell you about her favorite Christmas dress with the little red canaries? Or should I simply weep knowing that she'll never wear it again?
The Autumn leaves just started falling. They dance to the ground in celestial harmony, unaware of the gravestones between them. The casket, baby blue with paisley and flowers, lay silent above the ground as of yet, still and serene. The very print spoke her name to me. It is just like her. It holds her now, still and sleeping while her soul has gone on to be with her Lord. Truly, she has the better end of this deal. Now in glory with her Lord, we are left behind on this earth with remembrance, and nothing more. A pretty casket, lowered into a quiet stone vault and a headstone with her name: Miriam Kassarjian Badeer. Such is life.
There are no words to put to grief. Perhaps it's just that they haven't found me yet. Perhaps another look at the fresh dirt will bring the healing tears about. Perhaps.
Life marches on at an alarming speed. There's work to be done, people with needs, demands to be met, and promises to keep. The sun shines as though it doesn't care if it's raining in my heart. The leaves continue their divine dance through the Fall breeze, reminding me that all is not lost. The same God that orchestrates their colors and shapes has a design and plan for my brief time here on earth.Though that plan will end with my body in the grave, that is not it's goal. Life is worth the toil, grief and struggle because it is not the only thing we have to look forward to. It's only the beginning. One day, each of us will step through the doorway of death into eternity. Grandma Badeer has walked through it into glory. Hospice care and nursing homes are history. She is whole again. I cannot grieve for her, but I can grieve for the loss of her in my life. She has stepped into eternity, and those who love her are left to wait their turn.
"Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul."
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul."
-- H.W. Longfellow, "The Psalm of Life,"
