Reminiscence

As he breathes gently next to me, I move to touch his feet with mine. The radio stirring us awake. Sometimes a hand is forced and in a moment everything you thought you knew changes. To learn to move forward often involves turning to the past, so I find myself looking back.

As the world shut down around us I found pleasure in the simple things. A calm in the flurry of daily life. I was entering that phase where a mother becomes a taxi driver, football coach, hours sat at the edge of the swimming pool waiting for their turn to display the latest belly flop and eagerly awaiting a high five in the changing rooms. I have delighted in not worrying constantly about being on time.

But I am also afraid. I was learning to accept that busy life, an inevitable path I had to choose to quiet the resentment. I’m hurt and angry. Another memory waiting to be made is cancelled. It’s harder to lean on people you can’t touch. And with routine abandoned where is the direction? Is there something new I can be, will my hand be forced again when so much has already changed.

I’ve never been one to conform. My life has taken me on a range of twists and turns I have tried to embrace. I have found resisting only makes it harder. Leaning into the corners means you don’t fall over. With there always being something to respond to I have felt called to living a life in crisis, I seem to seek out the chaos. In a forced quiet I can’t stay still, why am I searching and yearning constantly for more. Will I ever be satisfied, why am I constantly bracing myself, waiting for the next gush of wind to take me in a new direction.

So I return to something familiar. A pondering on who I once was. What do I want to rediscover. What should I leave behind. I allow it to wash over me, flitting from one memory to another rambling. The ideas and excitement and fear rushing at me in one great blizzard. I can’t see. I’m confused and exhilarated.

I look deeper to a place I thought I had left it behind but here it is, staring me in the face. So real I lean out to touch it. But my finger tips don’t quite reach anymore. There are too many opportunities. Too many I might have wasted. I look for them in the storm but they are whitewashed and barely visible. Just a distant idea of a life that could have been. Did I loose myself in the chaos? Or is the something new I have become enough. Is it even new at all. Moving forward often involves turning to the past.

As he breathes gently next to me, I move to touch his feet with mine. As the world attempts to come back to life his warmth let’s me know a future. It isn’t the one I planned, but it is the one I hoped. The noise on the radio is different. But here, in this moment it is enough.

Easter Weekend

She stands still. wrapped up in her grief, raw and painful. “why are you crying?” they ask. Why wouldn’t she cry? He has been taken away. The man she loved, the one who taught her everything she knew, the only one who accepted her just as she is. He met her there with open arms, making anything possible. He has been taken away, and I don’t know where he is.

“Why are you crying? Who are you looking for?” The injustice and the pain cloud her vision. I cry out. Where is he? Where have you taken him? I want to see him again one last time.

But He is there standing in front of her. He calls me by name. I wrap my arms around him. She cries out, seeing him standing there so clearly. Touching Him. Did she kiss his hands? I reach for his face.

He speaks, lovingly and firm. Let me go. You can’t hold on to me. I have to go. She doesn’t want to let Him. This is too wonderful, to have him here again. A tear rolls down my cheek. She releases his hand, lingering on his fingers, relishing the final touch.

Go tell them. He says. tell my brothers I am going to meet my Father and your Father, to my God and your God. She steels herself, knowing what she must do. A new resolution. A steady, sure and certain hope in her heart. And she goes to them with the news Jesus is alive.

————–

Ben wasn’t Jesus. I’m going to use this disclaimer immediately. But I have been stood, as Mary was, alone, afraid and searching for hope. My connection with her isn’t a new one. As I have faithfully and sometimes angrily searched for strong and faithful women, she just pips them all to the post.

When the final moments came, I thought I would be afraid. Instead I found myself filled with a joy. I went, as Mary did, to tell everyone! I felt God had been good. It wasn’t just a peace but an excitement. A story that is worth hearing. That Ben was indeed faithful and good. Not perfect, but striving and hurting and longing to be the best he could. That was enough.

I look for him in the flowers sprouting around. I follow his example of looking for the best in each new day. Easter has reminded me that Ben got his inspiration from somewhere else too. He was following an example that was perfect.

Ben would often say that God is love. He is everywhere because love is possible everywhere. By showing love we are allowing God into our lives.

However, part of feeling this love in is letting go. Faith needs a leap. We cannot be bound by what we think love, or grief, or pain, or joy ought to look like. By clinging on to parts we think we understand we aren’t allowing ourselves to be open to fullness of what life or faith has to offer.

We see grief transformed into delight. A remembering of happy times, a life well lived. There isn’t sadness in recalling hurt or arguments, but a longing to take these lessons and to transform them into something good.

As spring emerges, bringing longer days and peeping flower buds, I hope you too might find some of that love.

ps… if you want to have a look for yourself you can find the story in John 20: 11-18