May 2015, Second Weekend (Tell me, Why Everything All at Once)

Lord, You tell me that 

For everything there is a season,

A time for every matter

Under heaven.

But how do I know

What season, what time

is this?

How –

When Maria died,

Too young,

With young children,

A rower, A skier,

A life full of action,

Still wanting to live –

And in my own life,

Once full of lethargy,

Now again energy?

As I mourn her life

I am still celebrating

The return to my own,

After too many years

Of internal death; 
For her, too few of life external.

Pills could not fix her,

Not doctors, not loved ones,

regimens, persistence –

Like finally, all of a sudden,

They did me.
(Why me?  

Not her, 
Not my mother?)
Though I myself 

Had given up 
Hope, stopped 
Persisting.

How –

With Dick in the hospital
Fallen once again,

speaking words incomprehensible -

Is the sky after a long winter cerulean;

The flowers in my mother’s window box

Blooming purple and yellow and pink?

How –

With George hooked up to IV’s

Heart heart failing, tired,
nonetheless

Planning his future:
breakfast group
Saturday, soon -

Are the rumblings of laughter

Still present in the expected

And least expected places:

The bar, with an old friend;
Church; outside, with children; 

My mother’s kitchen, without her in it?

How –

When I can’t communicate

With my brother,

Born of the same, my own flesh -

When that screen of mental Illness

Stands firm and blocks what should be

 A constant bloodstream of connection -

Is there still music?
Hymns in the sanctuary,
Frozen fever with Bella, 
Meghan Trainor in my car.

How –

When my grandmother’s

Hospital stay has changed

From a time of pain management

To a time for close

Observation, worry, 

And trouble waking -

Am I able now to appreciate

The love and support

Always there, but which

Months ago did not reach me,

Seeing only despair

In a world not then 

Touched by actual death,

Of illnesses physical,

Harder to ignore,

Yet easier to talk about,

to want to fix,

To envision possibilities.

Lord,

The seasons you outline

Through your servant

Qohelet

In that book

of your sacred Book

not otherwise

much referenced:

Are in this life –

(At least in my life) –

Not easily identified,

Distinguishable,

Picked apart,

Parsed.

But though hard to navigate,

I find myself responding

With gratitude

To the complexity of this world:
That hope still finds us when all seems hopeless,

That laughter makes its home with tears. 


Of course, given the choice,
I would take her back,
and her with her -


But since I cannot,
I thank you, God,
For what's left here on this earth.

At least I try,
and now - more often than I'd imagined, 
3 years gone by - I do.