myopic pilgrim

Last night was the first official class of Perspectives, a 15 week study program on the World Christian Movement birthed out of Urbana. A different guest speaker addresses us every week. This week it was Rev. Harold Kurtz.

He shared a story of how his 4 month old baby died (I don’t recall him saying how) while he was in Africa learning the local language for the purpose of sharing about Jesus Christ. The local community rallied to them and comforted them in ways appropriate in the their culture. While he was speaking I wrote two poems in response.

Frail A Thing
How frail a thing is life
So we bear witness

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from my journal, January 12

Today I learned the meaning of the word “wail.”

Today we buried my grandfather, my mother’s father. The mass was held at Immaculate Conception in the middle of Sparks, a small brick building where I was baptized as a baby into the Roman Catholic Church. I don’t remember how that went, but this ceremony seemed a mass of confusion. Every moment dripped with uncertainty. Is someone supposed to do the reading now? Am I supposed to sing? How long do we kneel for? The priest gave some helpful prompts to get everyone to respond in unison, but the uncertainty that hung over my family made me wonder if the priest met with the family more than once. And why not? If for no other reason but to make this religious ceremony run smoothly, so that the mourners can mourn and not wonder if the priest is sitting, waiting for something to happen.

The priest’s homily said all the right things. Jesus described death as sleep. Paul, the apostle, said those dead in Christ will rise first. Heaven is a wonderful place that more than makes for any trials here on earth. But the words seemed empty—not of truth, but of compassion.

At the gravesite north of town, more of us began to cry.

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He said: “You listen to NPR? Aren’t they liberal?”

I said: “I haven’t noticed it. Except certain editorials.”
I shoulda said: “Not all Christians are politically conservative in all areas.” or better “Amen!”

I leave a single trail of footprints in the snow as snowflakes float between the firs. Not a soul for miles, but I’m not alone.

“It’s dead quiet; I hear the snow fall.”

You’re not here to listen, but I’ve never stopped talking to you.

The trees’ greenery has been masked all but completely by an ivory frosting. It’s white all around us. It reminds me of our wedding day.

The stillness is broken by a thunderclap—I drop to my knees, feeling warmer, growing colder.
A grisly, crimson rose blooms at my feet.

I am not alone.

I talk a lot, but I don’t say anything.

A softer world is the cure for self-deprecating remarks, especially the one from June 6, 2003.