Tag Archives: John Saunders Kendrick

What My Father Saw

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“A house is made with walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams.”

–Attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882; American essayist, lecturer, philosopher, and poet who led the transcendentalist movement of the mid-19th century.)

Houses come. Houses go. Some we remember. Some we don’t. Usually, though, the house that we remember the most is the one that we call home. For me, it was the house that I lived in from the age of ten (when I started the fifth grade) until the age of seventeen (when I graduated from high school, left home, and started college). We moved there in the summer of 1957.

It wasn’t much of a house. White clapboard siding. Front porch with wooden columns. Living room. Kitchen. Two bedrooms. Screened back porch. Unfinished basement. Outhouse. The woods on one side were so close that the trees seemed to brush against the windowpanes even in the gentlest breeze.

It wasn’t much of a move, either, maybe a mile south of where we had been renting. That fall, I went to the same grade school that I had attended since we moved to Shady Spring. I remember standing in the school yard with Mr. Pack, my English teacher. I pointed to the house, calling his attention to the side stairs that led up to the screened-in back porch.

But this house was different from the others. This house was our home. Well, it would be one day if my parents could stay on top of the mortgage payments. It didn’t have a white picket fence, and it needed lots of “fixin’ up.” But it was our slice of the American Dream.

Fixin’ up was right up my father’s alley. Even though he was a coal miner, he was, in many ways, a visionary. When we moved in, my father saw many things that he could do that would turn what had been a tucked-away summer place into our year-round home.

I remember lots of his improvements because I was his helper. Straightaway, he and I started clearing the adjacent lot. Our home was still in the woods but no longer against the trees. I helped him take the back porch and turn it into a dining room opening into the kitchen. The two of us mixed cement in a wheelbarrow and poured a floor in the large unfinished basement, where my father framed out two bedrooms, a downstairs kitchen, and a bathroom. We tilled the field across the road and turned the thin layer of soil on top of the rock shelf into a garden, perfect for sturdy stalks of corn rising up like sentinels with delicate tendrils of green beans gracefully twining around them. The dry, clay soil seemed ideal for sunflowers, too. Somewhere, I have a polaroid of me kneeling –sun-bleached hair, radiant smile–holding a sunflower so large that it covered my chest.

Looking back at the initial hard work and the eventual improvements, I see my father’s unwavering determination. He saw potential where others saw obstacles, teaching me the importance of perseverance and the transformative power of a dream fueled by love. This house was more than a structure. It was a testament to his resilience and dedication to our family’s future.

But more than any of those memories is the memory of my father at the dinner table. I was the youngest child, the last one at home eating with my parents.

My mother, who always said grace, sat at the head of the table, looking toward the wall at the other end, with a large oil painting of the Last Supper. My father sat to her left, gazing through his bifocals out of the large picture window in the dining room that he had built. I sat to his left, looking toward the window as well, with a golden candle sconce on each side, their glass shades gently casting a warm glow on holidays or when we had company.

I turned toward my father and my mother a lot, usually talking with my mother. My father was, by nature, a reserved man, and after talking about his day’s work in the mines and about his strategy for loading more cars of coal the next day, he didn’t have much to say other than to praise what my mother had prepared for dinner or to respond to something that my mother or I said that required his response. I didn’t think anything about his silence then. I don’t think anything about his silence now. It was as natural to my father as being talkative was to me and my mother.

But as I watched him looking out our dining room picture window, I wondered then–and I wonder now–what my father saw.

No doubt he saw the present.

He had a multitude of snapshot possibilities. In his immediate line of vision would have been our lower terraced yard concealing an elaborate and fully provisioned underground bomb shelter that my father built. Further down the sloped yard was the meandering creek. My father planted an apple tree next to it that still bears fruit. Across the creek, another small garden. One summer, my father erected six or so towering structures, made from large sapling poles. He planted his favorite Kentucky Wonder beans around them. Somewhere, I have a polaroid of him standing inside one of the green-bean teepees. Long, smooth beans hanging down met his calloused, coal-sooted hands, reaching up.

Beyond that snapshot would have been the homes of three neighbors on Rt. 3. We always called it the Hinton Road because it connected our town to Hinton and the world beyond. More important than those neighbors’ homes, though, was the immense towering oak. My father stood beneath it, waiting for his ride to the mines, day after day after day, stretching out to the final day of his fifty-year career as a coal miner, never missing a day’s work.

Looking back, I see my father surveying the tangible results of his hard work and vision. Each tree planted, each structure built or improved, was a testament to his ability to transform dreams into reality. His daily routines, anchored by resilience and a relentless work ethic, spoke to the value of dedication. Even in the most ordinary moments, my father’s presence embodied commitment to our family and our future. His view from the window wasn’t just of our present home. It was of a legacy he was building, one that would endure long after he was gone.

No doubt he saw his past.

His mind likely wandered to his most recent past, the bankruptcy that bottomed out his short-lived dream of being a prosperous coal-mining operator on par with the company-store owner. It prompted our move from Ashland to Shady Spring.

Perhaps he saw his early coal mining years in the late nineteen teens and the 1920s. He was an activist for the United Mine Workers of America and a staunch supporter of its president, John L. Lewis. Somewhere, I have my father’s first UMWA membership card.

Perhaps he saw even further back to Patrick Springs, Virginia, where his farming family had Colonial American roots and where he was born there in 1902. Perhaps he saw the day when, as a teenager, he left home and boarded the Danville and Western Railroad. He made his way to Cherokee, WV, to make a life in the booming coal heartland of America.

Looking back at my father’s journey from a farmer’s son to a coal miner to an advocate for workers’ rights, I see a man who never let his circumstances define him. His past was marked by hard work, sacrifice, and an unyielding spirit. These experiences shaped his character, instilling in him a relentless drive to provide and care for his family, despite the hardships he faced. His past was not just a series of events, but a foundation of strength and resilience that he built upon every day.

No doubt he saw his future.

Perhaps my father saw the day when I would go to college, leaving him and my mother to explore their new roles as empty nesters. They always waited for me and my five siblings to come back home for visits.

Perhaps he envisioned some of his many innovative ideas coming to fruition in the marketplace. He made copper jewelry, believing that it provided therapeutic benefits for arthritis sufferers. (My father’s idea was not far-fetched: copper jewelry began to be marketed in the early 1970s.)

He also had a vision for extension ladders with adjustable legs, designed for painting homes built on sloped yards like ours, and he even built a prototype. (Again, my father’s idea was ahead of its time: extension ladders with adjustable legs for working on slopes began appearing on the market around the early 2000s.)

One of his more futuristic ideas involved cars moving along highways, advancing magnetically to specific destinations designated by the driver at the start of the journey. (This concept, while far-fetched in its time, became reality with the marketing of self-driving cars in the mid-2010s.)

Perhaps my father saw into his final years. I wonder whether his body was telling him early on what his doctors told him later. Black Lung. Third Stage Silicosis. I wonder whether his heart saw a 1982 Golden Wedding Anniversary. I wonder whether his soul foresaw a calm and peaceful passage heavenward a year later.

Looking back at my father gazing out the window, envisioning the future, I realize that he saw possibilities that others didn’t. His innovative ideas and forward-thinking mindset were a testament to his enduring hope and determination. Even in the face of illness and the unknown, he remained focused on what could be, leaving a legacy of optimism and ingenuity. His ability to dream beyond the present instilled in me the same fervor and faith in the future.

Whatever my father saw–whether his present, his past, or his future–I have not a doubt in the world that he was looking through the same metaphorical lens that he held up to my eyes when he taught me as a young boy how to use a push plow to lay out a perfectly straight row in the field.

“Don’t look down. Keep your eyes fixed on something in the distance where you want the row to end.”

He was teaching me far more than how to plow a straight row. He was teaching me how to live my life in a way that mirrored his. Maintain a clear vision. Stay focused on long-term objectives. Persevere through challenges with resilience and determination.

That’s what my father saw.

§ § §

John Saunders Kendrick (April 8, 1902–September 21, 1983)

My Kentucky Wonder

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“To cherish what remains of the Earth and to foster its renewal is our only legitimate hope of survival.”

–Wendell Berry (b. 1934; American novelist, poet, environmental activist, cultural critic, and farmer.)

My oldest sister, Audrey, keeps everything, and, like her memories, everything is tucked away here and there and everywhere, ready to be brought out and shared with others in a heartbeat.

Not too long ago–Yesterday? The day before? Forever ago?–she sent me a package, securely wrapped and taped, as befits irreplaceable heirlooms sent out into the world, leaving nothing behind to hold on to save precious memories.

When the package arrived, I wondered what was inside. With great care, I managed to unloose family treasures that had been alive decades ago, now destined for a new life decades later.

One by one, I gave Audrey’s relics the loving release that she desired. As I held each, I witnessed the release of my own memories locked away since–Yesterday? The day before? Forever ago? I recognized and remembered everything immediately.

The stainless steel EKCO can opener from my teenage 1960s, perfect for opening cans and bottles with ease, even today. It must have been quite high tech in its day, based on the full directions stamped into the handle:

MIRACLE CAN OPENER. HOLD IN LEFT HAND – HOOK GEAR UNDER RIM OF CAN – SQUEEZE HANDLES – TURN KEY TO RIGHT.

I grin as I hold that vintage kitchen marvel. Squeezing the handles, I wonder why my sister held on to it.

The Belgian tapestry, measuring 18″ high x 56″ long, that once hung above the fireplace mantel in my parents’ bedroom. I recall its presence vividly when I was a toddler. It offers a captivating glimpse into a Venetian court ball beneath a moonlit sky, where graceful dancers swirl elegantly across an outdoor terrace, their movements bathed in the soft glow of the moon. Despite some fraying along the edges, the tapestry remains beautifully preserved, capturing the timeless allure of a bygone era. I wonder when my mother gave the tapestry to my sister.

The Ever-Ready #79 Sterilized Shaving Brush, with its bakelite handle adorned in a nostalgic red and cream hue, its bristles worn ragged by decades of use. As a child, I watched my father dance the brush upon the surface of the soap, coaxing forth creamy lather like an artist delicately crafting a masterpiece. As a teenager, I danced that brush on the surface of my own shaving soap as I journeyed into manhood. Now, as I hold the brush in my hand in a moment of memory and reflection, time stands still, and I wonder when my father held the brush in his hand for the last time.

The Red Velvet Pipe and Cigarette Tobacco tin, with a hinged lid, made by Pinkerton Tobacco Company, Owensboro, Kentucky. It’s still filled to the top. My father smoked cigarettes until he was seventy and had a heart attack. I wonder whether this was his last tin of tobacco when he came to the realization that he had to quit.

The robust pipe, the next item that I gave release. When my father stopped smoking cigarettes, he took up pipe smoking. I hoped that the pipe in my hand was the incredibly expensive Meerschaum that I gifted him. It wasn’t. Instead, what I held in my hand was a Whitehall Jumbos large rustic straight pot pipe. It shows slight signs of age, but the walls of its bowl remain thick with a large flat surface on the rim. The pipe has a robust feel in my hand. I wonder when my dad held it in his weathered hands for the last time, wisps of smoke dancing ’round his head, carrying the rich fragrance of aged tobacco that I so much enjoyed. I wonder what happened to the Meerschaum that I hoped to hold.

Or the infamous knife, the one that nearly cut off my right hand. When but a child—no more than four or five, so small that I had to stand on a kitchen chair to watch as my father butchered a fresh chicken—I reached out to ask, “What’s that?” just as his knife—raised high in air—came thrusting down to sever the chicken breast. The knife could not stop. With equal speed, my father’s hand grasped my nearly severed right hand and held it in place until the doctor arrived. Today, the scar that spans my hand authenticates the strength of his: holding on, not letting go. My mother threw the kitchen knife into the coal bucket, resolving to never use it again. My oldest brother, John, took the knife and hid it away in a brown paper bag. Now, as I hold the knife in my scarred right hand and the crumpled bag in my left, I wonder why he retrieved it. I wonder why he kept it. I wonder when he passed it on to Audrey.

Or what about the Prince Albert Tobacco can, the last heirloom in the box that arrived–Yesterday? The day before? Forever ago? It’s the one that fascinates me the most. It’s 3 inches wide, 4 inches tall, and 3/4 inch thick. It’s vivid red, adorned with elegant gold lettering. On the front is an oval portrait of Edward VII before he was king, when he was known as “Prince Albert.” Since the image appears on the front only, the tin would have been manufactured before 1960. After that year, it was printed on the front and the back. 

As I run my fingers over its surface, I feel the nostalgic echo of my father’s smoking tradition. This pocket tin holds more than just the 1 5/8 ounces of tobacco that it once held. It holds treasured memories of a time that is no more.

Audrey taped a small handwritten note on the front:

“Look in can under paper. Try to see if they will grow.“

I wonder what’s inside. I take my thumbs and push up on the lid. I remove the paper. Beneath, bean seeds. Dark brown bean seeds.

“Kentucky Wonder!” I exclaim to myself. “Those are Kentucky Wonder seeds, my father’s favorite pole beans.”

I called Audrey to thank her for passing these keepsakes on to me. We shared memories, hers far richer than mine because she lived those treasures through the eyes of an older sibling.

She’s certain that the Prince Albert Tobacco tin is from the 1930s or 1940s, when my family lived in Cherokee (WV). She’s certain that my father collected those seeds from one of his gardens during those years.

Now, I’m not sure when that box of treasures arrived–Yesterday? The day before? Forever ago? But now that spring is here, I vow to do what Audrey bid me do:

“Try to see if they will grow.”

My mind is racing fast and faster with questions. I could ask Audrey who, no doubt, would know the answers.

But my mind is slant toward wonderment.

● I wonder whether those seeds really are from the 1930s and 1940s.

● I wonder when Audrey closeted away that tobacco tin filled with such potential.

● I wonder why she didn’t plant the seeds herself.

● I wonder why she sent the seeds to me, now, as she approaches 90 and as 80 chases me.

● I wonder whether those seeds will germinate and grow after all these years.

● I wonder whether those seeds really are Kentucky Wonder beans.

● I wonder what bean they might be if those seeds are not Kentucky Wonder.

I don’t wonder, however, about what I need to do. I will do exactly as my father and I did when I was but a child, and we started gardening together. As soon as the danger of frost is past and my fingers feel warm when I push them deep into the soil, I’ll put the seeds in a glass of water, and I’ll wait patiently for them to sprout.

Then, I’ll plant them, in threes, next to something tall that they can cling to and hold on to as they climb higher and higher. Then I’ll wait and watch with hope as summer unfolds and fulfills itself, wondering whether my father’s Kentucky Wonder beans, after seven decades or more of hiding away, have run back home to me.

§ § §

John Saunders Kendrick (April 8, 1902–September 21, 1983)

The Cake Stops Here

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“Family traditions counter alienation and confusion. They help us define who we are; they provide something steady, reliable, and safe in a confusing world.“

–Susan Lieberman (AUTHOR, LIFE COACH, END-OF-LIFE CONSULTANT.)

When my Father turned 80, he and my Mother were living with me in DC, in my Capitol Hill home. His birthday struck me as a momentous occasion. After all, it’s not every day that a West Virginia coal miner who worked for fifty years without missing a day and who breathed heavily with third-stage black lung becomes an octogenarian.

In my mind, his birthday rose to the level of a historic event. And so it was.

I shared the good news with the White House. My father beamed with pride brighter than proud when he received a birthday card from President Ronald Reagan. I had it double matted in dark blue with a gold fillet and a walnut frame. When I was home the last time, it was still on the wall, positioned precisely so that he could see it from his bed.

I reached out to Senator Robert Byrd (D-WV) and requested that a flag be flown over the U.S. Capitol on the April 8 momentous occasion. When I got home from work that day, I drove my Father to the Capitol. Looking up toward the blue sky, he capped his hands above his glasses, breaking the sun’s glare so that he could catch a better glimpse of the red, white and blue fluttering in the gentle breeze in his honor. I still have the authentication certificate. The flag flew proudly for many years until it was no longer fitting to be flown. Then,  consistent with the U.S. Flag Code, I burned it.

To add a Royal touch to my Father’s 80th birthday, I even contacted Queen Elizabeth, asking that she send birthday felicitations. Doing so seemed fitting to me, considering my family’s British roots. My Father was astonished when he received a two-page typed letter from the Queen’s Private Secretary, explaining in great detail why Her Majesty could not send official birthday greetings to a non-British citizen but nonetheless wishing him a happy birthday. My Father was amused and shared the letter with all who visited him. I have the letter filed away as a keepsake.

Of course, you can’t have a birthday without cake. My Mother ordered one from Sherrrill’s Restaurant and Bakery, an iconic landmark on Capitol Hill. The cake was three vanilla layers, with lemon curd between each layer, lavishly frosted with white lemon-flavored buttercream, and topped with a breathtaking arrangement of yellow frosting roses, their petals delicately unfurling, intertwined with vibrant green leaves and vines. It was a masterpiece.

After we savored several slices of the cake, I decided to gently lift a few of the roses, hoping to preserve them. I placed them on a flat plate and covered them gently with Saran Wrap. For the longest time, I kept them in a kitchen cupboard. Over time, they hardened as beautifully as I had hoped they would. Then I put them in my desk along with extra copies of the birthday napkins, cream-colored with ivy trailing around the inner square, embossed in gold in the center with:

Happy 80th – April 8, 1982

JOHN SAUNDERS KENDRICK

Those treasures took on increased significance when my Father died the next year. Afterward, when waves of grief and nostalgia would wash over me, I’d look at the treasures and reflect on the joyful occasion. At the same time, I sometimes thought about throwing them away, but I always changed my mind immediately. After all, they weren’t taking up that much space in my desk, and my Father’s roses defied time and age and held on to their beauty.

Not long after his death, my Mother–Bertha Pearl Witt Kendrick–returned to their West Virginia home and decided to stay there year-round. When she turned 80 on May 16, 1992, I visited and made the 12-layer strawberry-stack cake that her mother always made on her birthday.  To make it super special, I placed my Father’s roses on top. My Mother was ecstatic. She didn’t know that I had held on to them. I didn’t leave them on the cake for long. After I patted them dry, I rewrapped my Father’s roses carefully, took them home with me to DC, and put them back in my desk for safe keeping.

Seemingly impermeable to time, they stayed in my desk until 2013 when my oldest brother John was approaching his 80th birthday on October 17. By then, my Mother had died, and my brother’s wife had died. My oldest sister Audrey was his caregiver. I decided that the roses I had cherished and used on my parents’ 80th birthday cakes could be turned into some kind of family tradition. I hand-painted a wooden box to hold and protect my Father’s roses, and I shipped them off to my brother, with the following note inside.

17 October 2013

Dear Brother,

Happy 80th Birthday!

Perhaps Audrey will put these decorations on your birthday cake.

They are from Dad’s birthday cake when he turned 80 in 1982. Then ten years later–1992–when Mom turned 80, they spent a few moments on her cake.

You keep the decorations and pass them on to Audrey when she turns 80, and she can continue the tradition until, eventually, they will find their way back to me when I turn 80 in 2027!

Happy 80th!

Much love,

Brent

Since then, my Father’s roses have been passed down from one sibling to the next.

Audrey Jean turned 80 on September 16, 2015, and she was still Brother’s caregiver. Since her fiancé was dead, she ordered a cake for herself from the local bakery, placed my Father’s roses on top, and she and my brother celebrated her 80th birthday together. Brother died two months later.

In 2020, the roses journeyed to Richmond for Janet Arlene’s birthday on May 24. Arlene’s husband was dead, and COVID was beginning to show its ugliness. She thought it wise to celebrate her birthday without her two daughters. I ordered a decadent cake for her with four luscious chocolate layers and chocolate cream cheese frosting. Then, it was covered–top and sides–in red vanilla buttercream roses for a perfect finishing touch. I imagine that my Father’s roses ascended to their place of honor, even if for a fleeting moment.

Traveling once again, my Father’s roses made their way back to West Virginia in 2022 for Stanley Winston’s 80th birthday on February 7. He and his wife celebrated together.

Stanley passed my Father’s roses to Judy Carolyn, who lives just a mile or two up the road next door to my parents’ home. Next to it is Audrey’s home, and just beyond is what used to be Brother’s. I have no idea what kind of cake Judy will have, but I imagine that her family will come up with something fun and festive for her 80th birthday on December 13.

After her birthday, Judy will send my Father’s roses back to me. I will put them in my desk in the same spot that has remained empty, waiting for their homecoming.

As for me, I know exactly what I will do when I reach my 80th birthday on November 20, 2027. I will circle back to the beginning. I’ll have a flag flown over the Capitol in my honor, and I’ll drive to DC to watch the flag return my wave. I’ll keep the certificate of authentication, and I’ll fly my flag daily right here on my mountaintop.

If you’re thinking that I’ll reach out to King Charles III asking for his felicitations, you’re right. That’s exactly what I plan to do. I’ll be eager to see whether protocol across the Pond these days is up to snuff with past Royal standards. I suspect that it will be. I’ll be eager to read the response that I am certain to receive.

As for the cake, I would love to order one from Sherrill’s Bakery and Restaurant, but it no longer exists. Perhaps I’ll watch for the umpteenth time the 1989 Oscar-nominated documentary “Fine Food, Fine Pastries; Open 6 to 9” that captures the essence of Sherrill’s. Some things outlive themselves.

But rest assured. I will have a cake. I’ll bake it myself. It will be three vanilla layers, with lemon curd between each layer, lavishly frosted with white lemon-flavored buttercream, and topped with a breathtaking arrangement of yellow frosting roses, the original ones that came back home to me. It will be a masterpiece.

Every time that I savor a slice, I’ll celebrate my Father’s roses on top. They will have survived for 45 years. They brought joy to my Father and to my Mother, they brought joy to each of my five siblings, and they will have brought joy to me, as each of us in turn celebrated our 80th birthday. I’ll sit in the solemn silence of that sobering moment, adding up all of those 80s in my head. I’ll grin, reflecting on the grand sum: 640 years, well-lived and well-celebrated, all memories swirling in my head–alive, well, and treasured.

After I eat the last slice, I’ll give my dog the scrumptious final bite, just as my partner always did and just as I have continued to do since his death.

Then I’ll put the roses back in their box, along with my original note to my brother, and I’ll return my Father’s roses to their home in my desk.

The cake stops here.

“You’re Going to Be Okay.”

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“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

Haruki Murakami (b. 1949; internationally acclaimed Japanese writer. The quote is from his novel Kafka on the Shore [2002])

Sometimes, the greatest enigmas in life unfold right before our very eyes, revealing themselves to us gradually like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, not through anything monumental but rather through minor moments that fill our days and propel us forward. We may not even be aware of the significance of what is happening until one day, something triggers a momentary flashback, followed by a quick return to the present. In that instant, we know that we have been brushed by a condundrum and that we now kneel before a new truth.

For me, such revelations are rare. When they take place, they are heralded by the subtle realization that pieces of my life are falling into place more smoothly and more effortlessly than expected. In those moments, I reflect, and in my musings, I come to realize that maybe–just maybe–other aspects of my life are mysteriously falling into place, too, like an intricate riddle being solved.

Last weekend, I experienced a succession of such events that made me sit up and take notice. I didn’t know what was about to unfold, but every fiber of my being felt the shroud of mystery. The events seemed to have started with my post, “Packin’ Up. Gettin’ Ready to Go.” I finished it on Saturday, September 23, a full day earlier than expected, just as remnants from Ophelia brought dark clouds, a steady rainfall, and winds high enough to cause the trees to sway almost beyond their bend, but not high enough to elevate my concerns beyond my enjoyment. My big decision, as I sipped my morning coffee, was whether I would read the post to my oldest sister later that day or wait until Sunday as usual. This decision felt like a cipher in the grand scheme of things.

I put the question aside and started checking emails. I had one from a former student, Brian McKee, whose poetic voice is as fresh and original as any new American poet I’ve read in recent years. He shared a poem that he had penned that morning. Its beauty touched my inner being just as I know that it will touch yours.  Perhaps more importantly, it will linger with you and with me and make us wonder, “How?” and “Why?”

Desert Wind

It doesn’t have the lisp of leaves impeding
on its smooth trajectory over stone
and scrub. A place of helpless hook and barb,
of toothy undercarriage biting for an
overhead swoop. A highway of hawk and owl
and bats taking hook-shots in the current
around a soft ball of moon.

It’s hardly its own thing as a foreigner knows it.
A dry eddy of stir in the harshness
of the river I’ve yet to notice wading in.
Carrying the cinder and spark of cookfire
off in a rapid of oar-splash and air.
Holding in some endless canopy
a handful of lightning and stars
with the same weightless disregard.

It presides over a court of long shadow,
pizzicato of sound and the bow song
of echo long dispersed. Low clouds in
late light, lilting in the orbit that it blows.
The tiny thorns of its worshipers
dragging fissures in the ground,
sweeping my bootprints by morning.

Brian’s poetic gem made the clouds and the rain glisten even more, revealing hidden truths about the beauty of the world.

As I finished my emails and my coffee, I felt mysteriously compelled to go to Starbucks. I rarely go there, but thoughts of a pumpkin-spiced latte with a slice of pumpkin bread rose up in my head, so off I went. The storm and the earliness of the morning found me outnumbered by Starbucks staff, cheerful and chattering amongst themselves and with their occasional customer, including me.

I sat at my table, enjoying my enticements, daydreaming, thinking of this and of that, of nothing and of everything. In the midst of my mindlessness, the power went out mysteriously, with no warning: the sky was clear at that point, and the sun was shining. Silence followed, but it was replaced by humorous panic as the staff realized that without power, they were powerless to fulfill orders being placed by drive-through and walk-in customers.

The outage didn’t bother me at all. I was having fun watching staff negotiate with one another about the best course of action. Besides, I had my smartphone and could give “Packin’ Up. Gettin’ Ready to Go” a final and leisurely proofreading.

After twenty minutes or so, the power came back on, and everyone shouted a loud huzzah. I decided to return home and start preparing some Maryland Crab Soup–fitting, it seemed to me–to celebrate Ophelia, a storm that had moved up the coast and had blown in from the Eastern Shore. The day before, I purchased some jumbo lump crab meat, brought over from the same banks by our local fishmonger.

When I got home, I threw some logs into the kitchen fireplace, and before long, I was enjoying a crackling, roaring fire as I prepped.

Usually, when I’m in the kitchen, I play Gospel music, but I was in the mood for something a little lighter.

Brent: Alexa, play relaxation music.

Alexa: Here’s a station just for you–Acoustic Chill.

As I continued making my soup, I was listening but not listening, that is until some lyrics grabbed me, pulled me in close, and wouldn’t let go:

You’re gonna be okay
You’re gonna be okay
Oh, the sun will keep on risin’ in that old familiar way
And every little thing is gonna be okay

You’re gonna be all right
Darling, you’re, you’re gonna be all right
‘Cause the stars will keep on shinin’ through the darkest night
And you can know you’re gonna be all right

The song was powerfully gripping, and I knew as I listened that a mystery was being unfolded. Everything was falling inexplicably into place.

Brent: Alexa, what’s the name of that song?

Alexa: “Be Okay” by Lauren Daigle.

I know other songs by Lauren Daigle, an American contemporary Christian music singer and songwriter, known especially for “You Say” and “Thank God, I Do.”  She has a way of writing/singing Christian songs that cross over to the top-ten pop charts. I was surprised, though, to hear her on Acoustic Chill, a station that I listen to all the time, yet I had never heard her there before. I liked the song so much that I wanted to hear it again.

Brent: Alexa, repeat.

I let the first two verses slip into my soul once more, and then I let verses three and four slip deeper still:

Lift your eyes to the hills
Remember where your help comes from
Lift your eyes to the hills
You’ll never face a valley alone
‘Cause even when your heart is breakin’
And you’ve gone and lost your way
You’re, you’re gonna be okay

You’re gonna be okay
I know that you’re, you’re gonna be okay
Not a care in this whole world can take that truth away
You’re, you’re gonna be okay

And when the song ended, I wanted to hear it again and again and again.

Brent: Alexa, loop.

As I listened, the final verses settled deeper and deeper into my spirit.

You’re gonna be all right
Darlin’, you’re, you’re gonna be all right
Oh the end of our last breath, when we’re beckoned onto the light
Love will meet you there, you’re gonna be all right
Oh the end of our last breath is the beginning of new life
You’re, you’re gonna be all right

“Be Okay” kept right on playing while I kept right on cooking. It kept right on playing while its message kept right on trickling deeper and deeper into the depths of my soul. It kept right on playing as its truths kept right on bubbling back up.

I started thinking about death, the mystery that marks our ending. Or does it mark our beginning? I started thinking about grieving. Does it ever end? And how? And when?

I started thinking about my father’s death. When the evening of his wake arrived, I walked with my mother toward the open casket where he lay. Even from the far end of the chapel, we could see something on the lining of the raised casket lid—a design. Drawing closer, we were both taken aback as we looked inside the casket lid. It was not what we had ordered. It was not a solid white silk lining without tufting or design. Instead, we witnessed—together—a pair of praying hands. To the right of the hands, the words, “May God hold you in the palm of His hand until we meet again.” It was not what my mother and I had planned. It was not what we had ordered. And, yet, the praying hands were there, holding for me—and I believe for me alone—a lasting message.

Grieving my father’s death, I thought, would never come to an end. One day, however, when I least expected it, I had an awareness that it had been lifted.

I started thinking about my mother’s death. She had been paralyzed and flat on her back for six years. Two nights before her death, I had three dreams in quick succession. In the first dream, she got up out of bed and walked out on the porch, her arms reaching up toward a blue, blue sky, smiling and laughing and twirling—around and around and around. For the first time in six years, she’s out of bed—walking and dancing. She’s ecstatically happy. In the second dream, she was costumed as a white mouse, performing. Her audience, amused by her antics. Their reward? An encore—more frolics, much laughter. She’s freed from the journey, freed from the maze, blissfully celebrating her new path. In the third dream, she entered a softly lighted room where my father sat in his recliner. My mother sat down in the chair beside him and turned off the lamp. The room slowly—ever so slowly—fell into warm darkness. My mother and father are reunited.

When I awakened, I felt—no, knew—deep down in my soul that my mother came to me in those three dreams to prepare me for her death. Two days later, she died.

Grieving my mother’s death was entirely different. Being closer to her than to my father, I feared that her death would be my undoing. Instead, the faith lessons that she taught me down through the years comforted me and gave me peace.

I started thinking about my late partner’s death. Was it yesterday? Or was it the day before? Or was it an eternity ago?

As I reflected on Allen’s death and my grief, “Be Okay” kept right on playing, transporting me to the night before he died. It kept right on playing as I heard Allen reassuring me then while I stood beside his hospital bed just as Lauren Daigle was reassuring me now while I stood in my kitchen.

Allen clasped my hands and looked deep into my eyes:

I’m going to be okay.
You’re going to be okay.
We’re both going to be okay.

He knew. I knew. But that night neither of us wanted to know.

Allen died the next morning, just minutes after each of us looked at one another, saying one last time, “I love you.”

I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt as I closed Allen’s eyes and folded his hands prayerfully across his chest that he had been beckoned back into the Light and that he had crossed over into a new state of Being. I knew that he was all right, just as he had said that he would be.

Now, 968 days after his death, it was as if Allen stepped out of his own light, entered our kitchen, put his arms around me, and waltzed me out of the storm of my grieving into my own light. It was as if I was mysteriously convinced that the sun would keep on rising, that the stars would keep on shining, and that everything would be okay.

What makes the unveiling of the mystery even more mysterious and even more beautiful is the simple fact that I had done nothing with an eye toward grief-healing. It happened just as it had happened with my mother and with my father: the grieving lifted itself in my moment of readiness.

How ironic that it all came to pass on a day when I felt that something was brushing against me, but I knew not what. A more mundane litany of events for that day could hardly be imagined. I finished a post early. I heard from a poet friend from long, long ago. I went to Starbucks simply because something called me there. I came home, started a fire in the kitchen fireplace, and made crab soup to celebrate a tropical storm. I played acoustic chill music and heard a song that grabbed my heart and wouldn’t let go.

How ironic that when the storm within me passed, peace washed over my soul, and Allen’s love ushered me to the altar of truth that he foretold: “You’re going to be okay.”