January 6: "For Tom Shaw S. S. J. E. (1945-2014)," Holy Cross Cemetery, Candles

Mary Oliver mourns . . . 

For Tom Shaw S. S. J. E. (1945-2014)

by:  Mary Oliver

Where has this cold come from?

"It comes from the death of your friend."

Will I always, from now on, be this cold?

"No, it will diminish.  But always,

          it will be with you."

What is the reason for it?

"Wasn't your friendship always as beautiful

          as a flame?"

I went for a long walk with my dog yesterday afternoon.  The branches of the trees bent over the path because of the fresh, heavy snow, and it was a cathedral of cold, white winter.  I ended up at Holy Cross Cemetery, where the cremation stone for my sister, Sally, and parents is located.

The stone itself was just another mound of snow yesterday, but I found it.  I waded through the drifts and brushed off the top to uncover their names.  Usually, on Christmas Eve, I make a pilgrimage to Holy Cross to visit them, especially Sally.  Christmas was her favorite time of year.  This December 24th, however, a blizzard made that impossible.

When I was there yesterday, I noticed a new stone next to my parents and Sally's stone.  When I brushed off the top of it, I found my sister Rose's name   I hadn't realized that her stone had been put in place.  Seeing Rose's name in those metal letters took my breath away.  It was almost like experiencing her loss all over.  It made her death more definite and final for some reason.

I continued on my walk through the cemetery for another hour or so.  Gazed at the Christmas wreaths and decorations that adorned the graves.  All the Virgin Marys hip-deep in drifts.  Tops of gravestones pushing out of the fresh snow like raised granite eyebrows.  The whole time, though, I kept thinking about my sister Rose's name on that stone.

When I finally got back to my car, I started it and turned the heater on full blast.  And I began shaking and sobbing.  It wasn't that cold of a day (maybe 31 or 32 degrees Fahrenheit), but I was freezing.  I didn't stop shivering for almost 15 minutes.  It was like grief was sitting in the back seat of my car, hands on my shoulders, just rattling my body.

That's what Oliver is talking about in today's poem.  I thought I had processed Rose's death, slogged my way through the worst of it.  I was wrong.  It's always going to be with me.  Sometimes, it will diminish, almost to the point of vanishing.  But, it will return, over and over, throughout the rest of my life.

Rose's candle was bright.  Everyone who knew her can attest to that.  Her whole life, she was light and joy, even when she was being a pain in the ass.  (I'm not going to canonize Rose.  She could be a pistol.)  Yesterday, by that stone, in my car, I really felt the absence of her candle.

I'm not complaining.  Experiencing Rose's absence like that simply means that I also received tremendous love from her, as well.  It's just the way it works.  We all need candles like that in our lives, don't we?

Saint Marty does.

November 25: Christmas Eve, Candles, New Cartoon

I am in a Christmas mood at the moment.  I participated in a Christmas traditions service at church this morning.  It got me thinking about Christmas lights and Saint Nicholas and "Silent Night."  And that got me thinking about one of my favorite worship events of the entire year.

At 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve at my wife's church, we celebrate with candlelight.  The church is quiet.  The people gather with very little conversation.  Hugs are exchanged.  "Merry Christmas" is said like a prayer between friends and family.  It is not "high" church.  I don't play the pipe organ.  I use the piano.  The music is delicate and soft usually, like a light snowfall.

We read the Christmas narrative from one of the Gospels.  There's a special song, usually sung by my wife.  "All Through the Night" or "I Wonder as I Wander."  Something moody, contemplative.  We celebrate communion.  And then, near midnight or a little after, the lights are turned off in the sanctuary.  Candles are lit by everyone in the church.  And we sing "Silent Night."  We raise the candles at points during each verse, and, as the flames rise, I can feel my spirit taking flight.

When the final chords of "Silent Night" fade, the quiet returns.  The sanctuary glows with Christmas ornaments and garland and lights as we put on our coats and head out into the winter night.

Whether it's snowing and dark or the stars are clear as church bells, I am at peace.  Christmas has come.

The rest of Christmas is usually a blur of presents and relatives.  Noise and chaos dominate.

But Saint Marty holds on to that Christmas Eve service, the flickering candles, the singing, the stars or snow, the silent night.

Confessions of Saint Marty

April 23: Penultimate, Psalm 46, Easter Vigil

Blessed light

Today's psalm is the penultimate.  I love that word.  It sounds so important.  As we've moved toward Easter this week, I've found that the Easter imagery has sort-of taken over.  I worry about my poems becoming too Catholic sometimes, but the imagery from Catholicism is just so rich with suffering, hope, blood, and light.  I can't resist it.  When you grow up Catholic, it becomes part of your daily vocabulary.  It soaks into your skin.

Tonight, I'm going to play the organ and sing at the Easter Vigil mass at my church.  It's my favorite service of the year, full of ritual and candles and beauty.  It starts after sundown and lasts for a little over two hours, usually.  The moment that appeals to me the most is gathering in the dark sanctuary.  After dusk, my church is pitch black on the inside.  And then the Easter flame is lit, and the light is passed from candle-to-candle throughout the church.  When I look down from the choir loft, the pews are swimming with fire and warmth.  It's absolutely gorgeous.

Today's poem is about vigils people keep.

Saint Marty hopes you're having a peaceful and blessed weekend.

Psalm 46:  Vigil

When my grandmother died, my dad

Sat by her bed all night, recited

Rosaries, listened as her breaths

Became lighter, lighter, the space

In between, longer and longer,

Like waves on a summer beach, soft

Swells and troughs breaking on sand.

Hiss.  Silence.  Hiss.  Greater silence.

My dad kept vigil, waited for dawn,

The last wave, the greatest silence.

The night before my wife gave birth

To our daughter, the hospital room

Was filled with family, friends.

We took turns holding my wife’s hand

When the pain overcame her,

Preparing her body to deliver new life.

Outside, snow, wind tore through darkness

As we kept vigil, waited for sunrise.

This Holy Saturday, I will go to church

After night falls.  In the black pews,

I will wait for the priest to light

The first fires of Easter, for the flame

To pass from candle to candle

Until the walls, pillars, ceiling

Of the sanctuary flood with light.

I will go with my daughter,

Keep vigil with her, wait

For the church to bloom

With bells and incense and hymns,

Psalms of deserts and seas,

Hunger and manna.

I will sing with her, loud,

Joyful songs, calling all the children

Out to the playground, under the stars,

To slide, to clap, to dance, to shout,

To swing so high their feet

Kick the last breath of night

To the first cry of morning.