Trail of Tears
You
came on Ash Wednesday and left before I could speak to you.
I
don’t know your story;
I don’t even know your name.
But
I know that when you weep,
dark trails of mascara trace down your
cheeks.
At
the rail with my ashes,
I
added yet another dark smudge
to your young and sorrow-filled
face.
You
who entered Lent in such penitence and pain:
Easter is coming.
May
you be as attuned to its glory
as
you were to Lent’s sorrow.
May
you know the abundant life and love and blessing
of the One who comes
to wipe away
every tear.
Bread
Communion at the monastery consists of
sweet brown bread in round loaves, broken into thick pieces for distribution;
and golden wine.
From out of nowhere, I start to wonder
about the math of it all. I’ve been
receiving communion since the age of 4, roughly once per week for the last 49
years, the bread mostly as wafers. If
each sip of wine is a teaspoon and each wafer is a quarter of a gram (I looked
it up!), then thus far in my lifetime I’ve drunk about three gallons of
communion wine and eaten 1 and 1/3 pounds of communion bread. Three gallons of Jesus’ blood and 1 1/3
pounds of Jesus’ body.
You
are what you eat, they say.
Does it show?
Fellow Passenger
Your
hands are full, old woman—
boarding passes, carry-ons,
your husband with his cloudy mind
who departs for
the men’s room alone
but then must
be retrieved.
You
watch my bag; I guard yours.
Our
crosswords keep us busy.
When
the announcement comes to check our bags for free,
I
leap up
and
dash to be first at the counter.
It does not occur to me to offer you
any help.
It
is only when I turn back,
suddenly
remembering the backpack I so carelessly deserted in my haste,
that
I see you behind me,
and
you see my alarm.
You point to your husband, our seats,
my undisturbed bag.
“You’re okay,” you say.
Your
hands are full, old woman—
but not too full to offer kindness,
reassurance and compassion beyond what
I deserve.
“You’re okay,”
you say,
and I see a
glimpse of God.
The Clock
Before it was
mine, the clock was Mom’s. Before that
it belonged to Auntie Nell; and even before that it was the property of Uncle
Frank, who probably bought it new. A
ship’s bell clock, handcrafted in gleaming brass, marking the watches of day
and night: a satisfying purchase for a
sailor who served in the War to End All Wars.
The clock is
old now, able to keep time but with its ringing diminished from melodious,
well-ordered chiming to random clanging each half-hour. Local craftsmen have not been able to set it
right. But then I discover that the
Chelsea Clock Company, the original manufacturer, still exists! My clock can be repaired and restored.
I fill out the
form and photograph the clock, noticing for the first time the marring on the
clock face, the tarnish on the brass. I
document the imperfections: loose glass,
misaligned cover, malfunctioning latch.
Curious, I research the purchase price of a new ship’s bell clock: about $4,000.00
I had no idea
they were so valuable.
I fly to
Boston, the clock swaddled in my thickest sweater, resting on the bottom of my
backpack. I take a Lyft from the
monastery to the clock company. Running
my finger one more time along the side of Uncle Frank’s clock, I hand it over
for cleaning and repair and restoration.
That night, in
my cell, it occurs to me that I too have come to Boston for cleaning and repair
and restoration. Like my clock, I am
returning to the One who made me: the only One who has the skill and patience
to restore me, the One who sees in me—and in all of us—more worth than we can
possibly imagine.
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