It was raining
When we were small
Things cleared up and we stood tall
Walked the walk, and gave our all
We didn’t mind . . .
That it was raining.
It was raining
When we said farewell
They said we could come indoors
But we said, “no way in hell”
We walked the walk, and gave our all
We didn’t mind . . .
That it was raining.
It was raining
When we were no longer tall
No longer young, some, not there at all
But we walked the walk, and welcomed all
We didn’t mind . . .
That it was raining.
As always, I came early. I was not secure in my abilities within my role, but I had my opinions, and was able to put on a brave face. When I arrived at church, a bearded man in a corduroy blazer, a Roman collar and a soft voice, came out of the sanctuary to greet me. He had been there for a while, he said, wanting to get a feel for the place.
We shook hands, and spoke for a very few minutes before going into the interview meeting. Our committee told about how our congregation had been through rough times, and were looking for a pastor who could unite, heal and lead us. He was soft spoken, and answered all our questions systematically and honestly. I believe this systematic honesty came from his basic goodness mixed with his academic background as an engineer.
Sometimes, congregations need an engineer at the helm. He was that. The antithesis of a smooth politician, he told it as he saw it. He was gruff, raw, and real. I loved him from the get-go.
He was hired, to mixed reviews, but he became one of my best friends and closest allies. He presided over the confirmations of all three of my daughters, and the wedding of my niece. He made an annual trek to the local animal shelter in full robed regalia to bless all the dogs waiting for adoption. He visited my father and brother in the hospital before each passed away even though they were not part of his congregation, never speaking about these visits to me. He listened when I came to him with personal problems, came to see me unannounced on his bicycle, carrying homemade yogurt, just to sit and chat. His brusque demeanor was antithesis to some, but it suited me fine.
He is retired now, living a lovely rural life, growing tomatoes and making himself available for the occasional pastoral duties.
If ever there was a man I trusted, it was him. Thank you pastor.
When I was three years old, I remember standing at the side of my house thinking, “I am only three years old, yet look how smart I am.” This is a real remembrance. While my older brother was suffering from chronic asthma, with my parents paying way more attention to him than me, I, for a moment, understood how smart, how awesome I was. Most of the time, my parents spent their time and attention on my older brother. I was the healthy afterthought. Now, As a mother of five very different children, I have a modicum of sympathy for my parents in this time, especially for my mother. All mothers spend the majority of their time worrying about their weakest child. Often, what attention remains for the healthy second is lacking.
When I grew up, I left home, searching for the familiar, yet new.
I could not find my own trueness, so I settled for a facsimile of what I understood.
I felt my way in this new world, looking for what I recognized as true.
Eventually, after a number of years, I found it in my children. In the five I gave birth to, I rose. I rose to meet and greet them from before they were born. If there were ever moments I knew myself, it was these. I was a mother. I am a mother.
Yet, after they grew up, I was left with a gaping chasm. Who am I now? Who was I ever?
How can there be more than one true room inside a single person? There has to be. There is. I am still struggling with this room, with how I live within it, with how I reconcile this room with the past, with children, with the future.
I am closer to the end than to the beginning, yet, when fitful sleep comes, I still dream as if I was a confused child, seeing my lost baby brother, or an obedient mother, mortaring all the gaps between my children’s loose bricks. A frightened aging adult, wandering a maze of rooms that promise salvation, but lead nowhere. The children, the parents, the lost brother return over and over, screaming of my inadequacy. In these dark nights, I believe this voice. When I wake, I summon enough courage to get dressed, walk the dogs, move on.
Is this a way to live one’s last chapter? Sometimes I pretend to be confident in my opinions, but it often comes off more like belligerence. Where is the balance? How do I find myself, the one who, at age three, I understood to be awesome, but who gradually slipped away?
The awesome three-year-old is still awesome. She has inserted herself into the world for the good, and she has offered up five wonderful humans in the process. She has faltered and failed. She has persevered and proven herself. She is smart, strong, mighty. There is music and magic in her walk, her work, her will. I know this in my soul. Yet I find it hard to believe it in my daytime self. The midnight voice admonishes, and sits, like a lurking shadow during the day, waiting for night’s sleepless paranoia to clock in.
I search for the confident three-year-old. She is still there, I hear her voice, and see her standing at the side of the house. Now I need her at the side of my bed. I am only 68 years old, yet look how smart I am!
