This morning Cynthia passed into a new world.
Last night I wrote something before bed, intending to post it this morning, and I don’t know–we finished reading Stitches late last night, and Momma has always liked completing things she starts.
I’ll leave this here for now. Maybe one day this will start to make sense.
Most everything makes some sort of sense in hindsight–if meaning cannot be completely revealed, at least a pattern usually is, a template can be constructed from the remaining moments, so that we are better equipped for the next big bad thing that comes our way. Life is cyclical, that is for sure, and there is something comforting about the repetition of it all.
We Tripps have not yet made our way to the grand land of hindsight. We’re still jarring around in the cycle, trying to find meaning in the pain when it comes, only to be knocked over by it when it doubles back and pulls the rug out from under our feet. We move forward, then some chance moment bowls us over, leaving us feebly trying to cope with how rapidly our lives have changed in just two short months.
I’ve been reading Stitches by Anne Lamott to her in the past few days. Out of all the books in this house, I’m not sure why I picked that one up to read. Maybe she planned it, putting it on a shelf all by itself outside the laundry room where I would pass by it every day for the last three weeks. I picked it up because it looked gentle, and it is. I started to pick out passages that have affected us, but then stopped, realizing that retyping every word might be a bit more labor-intensive than I’m up for at the moment. Here’s just one:
To heal, it seems we have to stand in the middle of the horror, at the foot of the cross, and wait out another’s suffering where that person can see us. To be honest, that sucks. It’s the worst, even if you are the mother of God.
Mary didn’t say, “Oh, he’ll be back in a couple of days.” She didn’t know that. She stood with her son in the deep unknowing as he died.
So that’s were doing. We are here as witnesses, keeping a vigil, staying in this moment with her even when it doesn’t make any sense at all.