Tom got an obituary in the Times, and he saw to it that the funeral went off more or less decently: but it was still another one of those cremations. This time it was at Golders Green. The only difference was that the minister said more prayers, and the chapel looked a little more like a chapel, and Tom had got them to hide the coffin under a very beautiful shroud of silk from the Orient somewhere, China or Bali or India.
But in the end they took the shroud off and rolled the coffin through one of those sliding doors and then, in the sinister secrecy of the big, intricate crematory, out of our sight, the body was burned, and we went away.
Nevertheless, all that is of no importance, and it can be forgotten. For I hope that, in the living Christ, I shall one day see my father again: that is, I believe that Christ, Who is the Son of God, and Who is God, has power to raise up all those who have died in His grace, to the glory of His own Resurrection, and to share, body and soul, in the glory of His Divine inheritance, at the last day.
I'm sure that, as a young man, Merton thought nothing about dying in grace or the glory of resurrection. That came much later in Merton's life. He probably knew nothing about "Divine inheritance" and the body and soul. He didn't yet have any religious faith that would have provided some kind of consolation to him as a parentless boy.
My mother had her hip replacement surgery this afternoon, and everything went as well as could be expected. When she woke up in her room after the procedure, she was quite confused and in a lot of pain. It took a while for them to get that under control. My sister was able to get her to eat some mashed potatoes and Jell-O.
As a Christian, I do believe all that stuff about salvation Merton alludes to in the above passage. My faith certainly gave me some hope these last couple days. I know my mother really was surrounded by positive energy and a butt-load of prayers. They surrounded her like armor. And, if today hadn't gone well, my mother would have ridden all those prayers straight to heaven.
Now, of course, some difficult choices need to be made regarding rehabilitation. But that's the subject for another post, another time. For tonight, I hold on to the fact that my mother is safe and on the mend. That, to me, is enough of a miracle for tonight.
And Saint Marty says "hallelujah!" to that.
Ave
by: Martin Achatz
I was 18 the first time I saw
my mother cry. Arthritis invaded
her spine, stiffened her vertebrae
until, on that morning, she couldn't
cough or lift a coffee cup without
feeling whipped, scourged.
She'd given birth to nine children,
her youngest daughter with Down's,
a baby the doctors told her to forget,
put in an institution, walk away,
erase, like a hurricane after waters recede.
But Mother brought my sister
home, began the hard work of mothering.
Feeding, Diapers. Teaching. Colors.
Letters. Numbers. Watched my sister
laugh, walk, speak, do all the things
doctors said she would never do.
My sister flourished like an orchid
in the hothouse of my mother's love,
became exotic and beautiful, healthy.
If my mother cried when the doctors
used the words "mongoloid," "retarded,"
she never said. If she cried
when my sister took her first impossible
step, she never said. If she cried
when my sister first called her "mommy,"
she never said. The day I saw my mother
Cry, she felt helpless, old, reduced.
Like Mary, she realized she couldn't
carry every cross for her baby.
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