Well, I didn't finish The Invisible World before book club last night. My pastor friend called a couple of hours before the meeting to tell me he wasn't able to come. Too much snow, he said. However, John Smolens did show up, and I finished enough of his novel (including the last 40 pages) to ask intelligent questions. Overall, I thought the night went well.
Today is the feast of Margaret Clitherow, a sixteenth-century English martyr. After marrying her husband, Margaret converted to Catholicism. She began hiding priests in her home to ensure their safety. She was eventually caught, arrested, and condemned to death. A few days before her sentence was carried out, she told a friend, "The sheriffs have said that I am going to die this coming Friday; and I feel the weakness of my flesh which is troubled at this news, but my spirit rejoices greatly. For the love of God, pray for me and ask all good people to do likewise." She's one of the first martyrs I've read about who didn't go to her death doing an Irish stepdance. Margaret actually expresses doubt, even fear. She doesn't embrace death like she's going to a class reunion. When she was crushed beneath a door covered in boulders, Margaret didn't joke with her executioners like some martyrs do. She died within fifteen agonizing minutes.
Last night, John left after about an hour-and-a-half, explaining that his wife was very ill. He said she had been diagnosed with a brain tumor last June, and now she is in hospice care. He didn't eat much at the meeting. He promised his wife he would eat dinner with her when he got home, "Even though she doesn't eat very much any more," he said. He looked tired, worn down. He didn't talk about his wife's pain or suffering. He didn't talk about his own fear or sorrow. He signed books, accepted hugs. I hope he felt appreciated. I hope he felt lifted up, just a little bit.
In the face of human suffering, sometimes all you can do is offer a plate of food, some conversation, an embrace. Martyrs aren't people who play cards with Death, like some Woody Allen character. Martyrs are people who fear, who hurt, who need support and prayer, like Margaret. Like John. Like John's wife.
Saint Marty said a prayer for his friend last night. A prayer of comfort. A prayer for hope.
Psalm 17: Geranium Love
Today is the feast of Margaret Clitherow, a sixteenth-century English martyr. After marrying her husband, Margaret converted to Catholicism. She began hiding priests in her home to ensure their safety. She was eventually caught, arrested, and condemned to death. A few days before her sentence was carried out, she told a friend, "The sheriffs have said that I am going to die this coming Friday; and I feel the weakness of my flesh which is troubled at this news, but my spirit rejoices greatly. For the love of God, pray for me and ask all good people to do likewise." She's one of the first martyrs I've read about who didn't go to her death doing an Irish stepdance. Margaret actually expresses doubt, even fear. She doesn't embrace death like she's going to a class reunion. When she was crushed beneath a door covered in boulders, Margaret didn't joke with her executioners like some martyrs do. She died within fifteen agonizing minutes.
Last night, John left after about an hour-and-a-half, explaining that his wife was very ill. He said she had been diagnosed with a brain tumor last June, and now she is in hospice care. He didn't eat much at the meeting. He promised his wife he would eat dinner with her when he got home, "Even though she doesn't eat very much any more," he said. He looked tired, worn down. He didn't talk about his wife's pain or suffering. He didn't talk about his own fear or sorrow. He signed books, accepted hugs. I hope he felt appreciated. I hope he felt lifted up, just a little bit.
In the face of human suffering, sometimes all you can do is offer a plate of food, some conversation, an embrace. Martyrs aren't people who play cards with Death, like some Woody Allen character. Martyrs are people who fear, who hurt, who need support and prayer, like Margaret. Like John. Like John's wife.
Saint Marty said a prayer for his friend last night. A prayer of comfort. A prayer for hope.
Psalm 17: Geranium Love
For John and Reesha
The geranium had been a part of him
Since college, before he called himself
A writer, before he moved to the big lake,
Before he knew who he was. The geranium
Went with him, from Boston chowder
To Iowa corn, always red as Mars,
Always full of bud and flower.
He and the geranium ate toasted cheese
Sandwiches on Saturday mornings.
He read Camus, Tolstoy to her in bed,
Took her to Bergman films, fed her
Oysters, artichoke hearts, dark chocolate.
When the geranium’s petals turned black,
He pruned them like unneeded adjectives,
Watched red verbs unfold, open, spread
Again and again over the years, constant
Spring in his syllables, words, sentences,
Paragraphs, pages, books. He loved
The geranium. The geranium loved him
The only way geraniums can: root, leaf,
Stem, bud, blossom, blossom, blossom.
These days, he nurses the geranium, folds
Eggshells, coffee grounds, carrot shavings
Into her soil. Mists her green with water.
Wants to coax her back to color. Still,
The geranium’s roots weaken, let go.
She knows winter is coming soon.
The geranium doesn’t want to leave him.
He sits with her far into night,
Talks of sun and rain and summer.
Talks until light touches the bedroom
Window, fills her with warmth.
wiping tears from my eyes....very nice
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