Awaiting the Resurrection

The last two weeks have been heavy ones for Josh and I. We were overjoyed to be expecting another little one in the late spring, but on August 12th our tiny Ruadhán went to be with Jesus. Some of you have little ones who have gone before you into the presence of the Lord and you know what it is to hold both the joy of their lives and the grief of losing them in your heart. You know the fear driven, paradoxical aversion to the idea of ever opening yourself up to nurturing another life. You know the confusion over the seemingly illogical experience of intense grief over the loss of someone you have known for less than two months. 

I wrote about these things because writing is the only way I really know how to process powerful emotions. I'm sharing it because knowing that several women who I trust and look up to have been through these things has been a strength to my soul and we need to know that we aren't alone. We need to encourage each other in sorrow to keep "clinging to the Keeper of life and awaiting the Resurrection." 

Awaiting the Resurrection 

O Barren Wasteland of Flesh -

   freckled with mirages of fertility,

     mocking my expectant heart.

O Hungry-eyed Darkness within me -

    feigning hospitality 

       but serving Death: 

I sit at your borders 

   like Jonah under the shade of his vine,

      biting my lip against the curses welling up within.

For you betrayed me when I trusted you!

The innocent, defenseless seed of our passion

 - my Lover and I -  we nestled with muscly hopes 

  into the moist darkness of your soil. 

Alas!

Though life welled up within the seed

  and sinewy buds burst forth, 

     and roots took hold - 

         mining for strength for its becoming,

Your scarred and rocky depths remained

          unmoved

                  unbending

Giving up only the unavoidable crumbs of vitality 

   which are indigenous to your insidious deception.

There!

I have spilt my chemical fury on you

  O Faultless Womb!

These have been my (thinly veiled)

  complaints against the Keeper of Life

It is within Him (not you!) 

  that we had so joyfully burrowed our hopes.

But it is treason to thrash against the Hand 

  who set the boundaries of your days and weeks 

     Our dear, dear Ruadhán!

And it is Time, not Death,

  on whose chest I unleash 

      the pounding fists of my rabid grief.

For I drank deeply of your presence 

  Sweet Little One - 

Through every vibrant day 

  of your single season. 

But, drunk with the new wine of your life,

  I woke 

  to find your vine withered.

Staggering towards the empty cup

  your presence had filled to overflowing

       in the weeks before,

My stumbling stupor

  betrayed the selfishness of my love.

I clutch my pounding head, 

  conscious - above all -  of my own withdrawal pangs,

 Frantic with wide eyed disbelief

   that I would never taste of your life again.

Heaving hot, angry sobs

  against the impenetrable void of possibilities 

   which the flavors of your life could have ripened into,

I sink into my Lovers arms -

  gratefully conscious of the bonds by which he and I are fused 

  into a oneness only Eternity’s scalpel can disentwine.

He, my fellow gardener, sits with me

  - numb and angry in turns.

He is, however, bolstered by a patience of faith

  I seem unable to find within myself in this moment.

So he wraps his around us both 

  as I - once the eager gardener - 

Strain to pile up all the hopes and means for nurturing future life

  upon the funeral pyre - 

Satisfied to watch them turn to ash 

  and to plant only yew trees

     in the self centered soil of my soul.

But My Beloved turns His eyes on me

  - gentle, long-seeing eyes - 

        in whose depths gleam the hope of the Resurrection,

            where Time and Death are conquered 

                  and all is made new. 

He speaks no words.

Words are not strong enough to bear the weight 

      of this sorrow

          and this hope

              and this fear.

So we sit together a while

   at the Still Point.

And at the end of the day

  I walk into the setting sun,

Down to the Lightening Tree

  where my Beloved and I sealed our covenant 

      with ring and stone one cold winters day

There, in the naked earth, 

  where thick, red sap trickles perpetually

     from the mighty limbs above

         to sweeten the ground where the lilies grow,

               I lay the tiny body down to rest. 

                 nestled among layers of consecrated lace.

On the near edge of the Still Point, 

  Time moves on.

Our bodies and minds pick up hoe and watering can

  to nurture the flowers still blooming and growing

     in this given garden.

And in this liturgy of little obediences

   we wait together quietly: 

Too weak to till new soil

    for future springtimes,

Too weak to hope 

    for future harvests,

But clinging to the Keeper of Life

 and Awaiting the Resurrection.