Celebration of a life lived. In memoriam: June 9, 2017
Inadequate at best—
attempts
to pen a shining life
of ninety and three years;
like water through fingers, she stole away
indisputable, unstoppable, to her final place of rest
Farmgirl,
the first after three boisterous boys—
she joked with her initials: BJH
Baboon, Jackal, Hare;
but wiped away tears with brothers as tutors:
“pedal harder!” they chided at her fear that she’ll fall and unfurl
Kindergarten teacher,
A class of forty bristling brats
receptive little rascals, who drank her every word;
and evenings she’d learn, and sketch from live anatomy
soon modeling with clay, the fingers deft—
sculpt a figure bold, from a posing unclothed creature
When the African interior
came recruiting—the Mission field—unflinching, she heeded the call;
there, amongst mopani, bougainvillea, and the sweetest wisteria
a shy preacher she met, a zealous man, and occasional big game hunter.
Five children, she birthed—discovered her role—of protector, of mother and rock,
when the missionary would journey for weeks on end as if all superior
Her brave, her vibrant spirit
he’d hammer and nail (in secret at first)
then justify the orthodox preaching, his incessant teaching—
her sculptures, her figures verboten
against the second commandment, he claimed
down the long-drop, they went—each a quiet blow—all to her merit
And yet dearest Mother,
you never recoiled
alone and unshakable—in the midst of belittling.
You clung to this truth:
“My grace is sufficient,”
refusing, rebuking, the constant barrage—each attempt your soul try to smother
You were the one to pick us up
when off the bicycles we came—
Dad, away, on yet another Mission’s trip.
A fleeting hug, a sideways kiss,
dabbing of mercurochrome
on each abraded knee and palm, then coaxed us on, “get up, get up!”
High school teacher,
wife of a preacher, who manned the fort
playing: mother and father,
prosecutor, counsel for the defense, and keeper of the peace—
stretching her pennies
to feed and clothe the clan—more often than none, her distinguishing feature
Your teaching
on girlfriends and boyfriends was clear—
“keep them at arms’ length,” you always admonished.
We laughed and we chortled,
as we hugged you firmer, kissed you harder,
whenever so gently you pushed us away—‘cause this you said, was breaching
Middle aged we grew
while the two of you grew old—
astounding to us, your stance,
loyalty beyond imagination,
shrugged your shoulders broad at his derisive declaration—
of the prophecies, you have no comprehension, but we know, ‘twas untrue
Grandmother,
you introduced the grandchildren
to the potter’s wheel,
the art of centering the clay, while pedaling the wheel—
fire up the kiln, bake big and small creations;
painted in the brightest colors—then, baked them all once more—do bother
Mother-dear,
you never claimed perfection, to be a parent without fault—
and yet, we expected that, and so much more;
to keep us safe, protected, shielded from his lashing tongue, the constant hurt.
And now—we mourn your sudden passing—a mere ten days behind him,
We pause, unwilling and uncertain—perchance the pain of healing that we fear
Inadequate at best—
attempts
to pen a radiant life
of ninety and three years;
suffice to say, dear Mother, we were blessed.
‘Till we meet again—without pain, or fear or sorrow—until then, do rest.
(Far better is it to celebrate a life lived, than to merely mourn their passing. Thank you for reading!)