My father and mother came from the ends of the earth, to Prades, and though they came to stay, they stayed there barely long enough for me to be born and get on my small feet, and then they left again. And they continued and I began a somewhat long journey: for all three of us, one way and another, it is now ended.
And though my father came from the other side of the earth, beyond many oceans, all the pictures of Christchurch, New Zealand, where he was born, look like the suburbs of London, but perhaps a little cleaner. There is more sunlight in New Zealand, and I think the people are healthier.
My father's name was Owen Merton. Owen because his mother's family had lived for a generation or two in Wales, though I believe they were originally Lowland Scotch. And my father's father was a music master, and a pious man, who taught at Christ's College, Christchurch, on the South Island.
My father had a lot of energy and independence. He told me how it was in the hill country and in the mountains of the South Island, out on the sheep farms and in the forests where he had been, and once, when one of the Antarctic expeditions came that way. my father nearly joined it, to go to the South Pole. He would have been frozen to death along with all the others, for that was the one from which no one returned.
When he wanted to study art, there were many difficulties in his way, and it was not easy for him to convince his people that that was really his vocation. But eventually he went to London, and then to Paris, and in Paris he met my mother, and married her, and never went back to New Zealand.
My mother was an American. I have seen a picture of her as a rather slight, thin, sober little person with a serious and somewhat anxious and very sensitive face. And this corresponds with my memory of her--worried, precise, quick, critical of me, her son. Yet in the family she has always been spoken of as gay and very lighthearted. My grandmother kept great locks of Mother's red hair, after she died, and Mother's happy laughter as a boarding-school girl was what never ceased to echo in my grandmother's memory.
Merton has no real vivid recollections of his mother. She died when Merton was very young. Thus, most of the descriptions of his mother in The Seven Storey Mountain come from memories of other people--his grandmother, for example, in the passage above. And what comes through in the brief paragraph above is a tiny, red-haired woman, perhaps too strict with her precocious son, but also full of laughter and a zest for life.
For the past five or six months, Sally Z. had been struggling with health issues. Always an active church member and music master (like Merton's father), she was forced over the last half year to slow down, try to take care of herself. Her goal was always to return to her choir robes and music stand, raising a joyful noise to the Lord. She loved leading the basses, tenors, altos, and sopranos of Mitchell United Methodist Church. One of her favorite nuggets of wisdom was, "If you can't sing it right, sing it loud." Many a Sunday, I sang it loud for my friend, Sally Z. Because she always was able to bring the best out in people. Always.
This afternoon, I received a phone call from Sally Z.'s daughter. Sally Z. passed away last night or early this morning in her sleep. Like with everything else she did, Sally Z. chose her own time and way of leaving this mortal realm to join the heavenly host. No fuss. No ambulance. No heroic, life-saving measures. Sally Z. never wanted to burden anyone with her problems. In the end, she simply went to sleep, in her own apartment, without a crowd, without a final bow.
I last spoke with Sally Z. this past Sunday morning. I called to apologize for not visiting her for Christmas. I had plans to stop by to see her on December 26, but I became ill. A cold, bordering on bronchitis. Considering Sally Z.'s recent health issues, I didn't want to chance infecting her. "I'm sorry, Sal," I said. "I've been a terrible friend."
She laughed and said, "You put that away right now. I know you love me."
For several minutes, we spoke about music and the choir and Christmas Eve and family. I told her I had a present for her. She sniffed and said, "It's too much. I don't know why you care about this old bag, Martin. I do nothing for you." Even though Sally Z. has seen me through some of the most difficult times in my life, she never saw her love as important enough to warrant my devotion to her. Sally Z. was a prayer warrior. She prayed for me and my family so much that God probably got sick of hearing from her.
At the end of our conversation, I said to her, "I love you, Sal. I'll see you sometime this week. I promise. I'll bring you some of my chocolate chip cookies."
Sally Z. paused for moment, and then she said, "I love you, too, babe."
Her last words to me.
The world is a little darker this evening. But the heavens are shining a whole lot brighter. Sally Z. is up there right now, probably telling the angel choirs to blend their voices more. "Don't lay any eggs," she's instructing the soprano seraphs. And I know she's also nagging Jesus, pulling on His robes, wagging a finger in His face, saying, "Listen, buddy, you need to help out someone for me."
Saint Marty is heartbroken tonight. Bereft of a great, great friend. One of the best. He has one final thing to say about Sally Z.: I love you, too, babe.
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