December 30: Time Unfurls, Funerals, Good Things

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And then occasionally the mountains part.  The tree with the lights in it appears, the mockingbird falls, and time unfurls across space like an oriflamme.  Now, we rejoice . . .

It's all about light and rejoicing.  Moments when the sky opens up, and time comes to a standstill.  The world frozen in happiness, however brief.  

This evening, we celebrated the life of my wife's grandmother.  Funerals are strange things.  They are full of both laughter and tears.  Sort of like life.  We joined together.  Prayed.  Sang.  Shared stories.  Looked at old pictures.  And ate.  It sort sounds like a family Christmas get-together, in a way.

Tomorrow is New Year's Eve.  A time of looking backward and forward.  There have been some really good things that have happened this year.  A promotion at the university.  My daughter turning sixteen.  Good job for my wife that she loves.  My son--funny, full of compassion and love (our parish priest told me a little while ago that my son was "full of light").  Good things.

But there have been challenges, as well.  My dad falling down the stairs and breaking his shoulder.  My mother's failing memory.  Constant money struggles.  Most recently, the passing of my wife's grandmother this past week.  Bad things.

That's what this evening was all about.  Acknowledging the good and bad.  Crying and laughing.  We have a fridge full of cheese and ham and rolls.  Some noodle salad.  Over the next week, we will eat those leftovers.  Remember.  Because memory is a gift for the brokenhearted. 

I hope all my disciples have more good than bad to remember this New Year's Eve.  And ham rolls.  Lots of ham rolls.

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December 29: Death, Debbie Reynolds, "Strawberry Picking"

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I know death is a natural part of life, but I'm getting a little tired of it.  I was actually thinking that I might make to January 1st without any close member of our family dying.  I was wrong. 

Granted, my wife's grandmother was almost a century old.  She had a long, mostly good life.  But that doesn't make the loss any easier.  And, of course, 2016 has claimed a good many famous people, as well.  Yesterday, Debbie Reynolds died, one day after her daughter, Carrie Fisher, passed.  The Grim Reaper is having a good year.

August of 2015, I wrote the following poem for my sister's funeral:

Strawberry Picking

by:  Martin Achatz

You took me strawberry picking
once, drove out to a farm
where we paid to squat in green
beds laced with tongues of red.
I could feel my ears and neck
tighten under the punishing
sun as we filled Morning Glory
ice cream buckets with our
harvest, each berry looking to me
like some vital body part,
an organ or muscle necessary
for life.  You sat on your haunches,
fingers staining red, as if you
were some battlefield surgeon
patching up the fallen with only
your hands.  Every now and then,
you would lift a berry to your lips,
eat it in a hummingbird moment,
smiling the smile of the freshly
healed at Lourdes, where miracles
are common as empty wheelchairs
or dandelions in a July field.

The days since you've been gone,
I see strawberries everywhere,
in a welt of blood on my lip
after shaving, a stop sign,
a friend's dyed hair,
my son's sunburned shoulders,
oxygen in the gills of a perch.
Last night, I stood outside, under
ribbons of borealis, watched
them glide between the stars
like garter snakes in a midnight
Eden.  The Bible says that, in the cool
of the day, Adam and Eve heard
God taking a stroll through
the garden.  There were probably
peacocks nesting in the pines,
a stream talking with moss and stone,
the scurry of mole and spider
in the ferns.

That's what I believe you heard
in your last moments of breath.
You heard peafowl screams,
brook trout leaps.  Grasshopper wing
and corn silk.  And you heard
His divine toes in the grass, walking
along.  When He came to you,
He couldn't resist.  He reached down,
plucked you from the stem.  You were
ripe.  Sweet.  Ready.  He put you
in His Morning Glory bucket, continued
on into the dew and sunlight.


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December 29: Thanks His Host, Book Club Christmas Party, Crescent Weenies

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I think that they drying pray at the last not "please," but "thank you," as a guest thanks his host at the door . . .

I chose this quote because it sort of reflects my entire day, which has been consumed by two things:  funeral plans and book club plans.

This evening, I hosted my book club's Christmas party.  Agatha Christie.  Chili.  A cheese fountain with warm, soft pretzels.  Lemon bars and fruit tarts, among other goodies.  Plus, we had a Secret Santa exchange.  I got a book of poems by Tracy K. Smith (Life on Mars) and an Adele CD (21).  It was a good night, full of good will.

Tomorrow will be all about the funeral service for my wife's grandmother.  I will be playing the music on the pipe organ.  Nothing difficult--"How Great Thou Art" and "In the Garden."  Two of her grandma's favorite hymns.  Just finished cooking some crescent weenies for the lunch after the service. 

It's been a busy day.  I'm pretty beat, and there's not a while lot of relaxation in store for me this weekend.  Three church services, including the funeral.  New Year's Eve.  New Year's day.  Right now, I keep falling asleep with my fingers on the keyboard.  I just typed "bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbblllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll."

Translation:  it's time for Saint Marty to go to bed.

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December 28: Without Judgement, Wife's Grandmother, "In the Nursing Home"

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My wife's grandmother spent so much of her life taking care of other people.  She gave love freely, without judgement.  I can only hope to live up to her example of compassion and generosity of spirit.  She made me feel welcome into her family from the first time that I met her.  Well, almost from the start.

She lived in a nursing home for the last eight or nine years of her life.  For the last three years, she was greatly diminished.  This past year, she slept most of the time.  At her last birthday party, I don't even remember her waking up.

I wrote this poem about six years ago, after visiting my wife's grandmother one Saturday afternoon.  I had completely forgotten about this until this morning. 

In the Nursing Home

by:  Martin Achatz

Birds sing.  Finches.  Canary and sparrow.

Saffron, green, blue feathers.

This time of year, the nests are full

Of new life, creatures smaller

Than thumbnails, blind to their world

Of glass and wood and seed.

My daughter crowds around the enclosure,

Watches anxious flit, hears mother

Birds scream to protect newborns.

Our visit will be short today.

My wife walks her grandmother

To the dining hall, keeps up

A steady monologue of news.

Our daughter's in fifth grade.

Our son's going to be three in September.

When they reach the aviary, they stop.

Her grandmother narrows her eyes

At the flutter and squeak inside.

Emmet hasn't come yet, she says to my wife.

I waited for him yesterday.

She looks up at my wife, says, He never came.

My wife stares at her a few moments.

Grandpa died five years ago, remember?

Her grandmother smiles, nods.

They turn into the dining hall, to the smell

Of turkey and steamed broccoli.

My daughter points to a hatchling

That's fallen out of its nest.  It struggles

To return to the place of food, feather comfort.

Help it, my daughter says to me.

Someone will, I say, not sure

If I'm telling the truth or not.

I stare at the tiny bird's pink skin,

At its quick, hungry breaths,

Its fatal need for love.

Someone will, I say again.

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