If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
The lovers behind him, fresh from their night of wild and confusing wanderings, awake and no longer bewitched but simply loving, held onto each other and beamed.
They say that when someone dies it is important to see as much as possible, to not shirk or hide from any of it, so that the reality of it will be impressed upon you, so that you will not be able to convince yourself that it never happened. That it was but a dream.
It doesn't work.
Well, I suppose it does. Perhaps the whole thing would be even more unreal if I had experienced nothing but a phone call and then a walk by a pile of dirt on the ground .
But I can't imagine it would. For it does, indeed, seem like a dream - what happened three months ago and even our life together at times.
I have written before about the feeling of living in different layers of reality, unsure of which one is true, which one it is possible to hold onto. The present is very concrete and I am surely living in it, intentionally and purposefully, but there is an aspect of it that is not quite real, even as I can feel and hear and see it all, because without him I don't quite feel and hear and see it all. Not yet.
As Puck spoke, my eyes filled because ...why? I am not sure. Was I jealous of the imaginary lovers? Grieving because now, no matter how deeply I try to enter into the open eyes looking at me from a photograph, it is no use? In a way it does seem as if it were all like a dream that is over and that I've been jolted awake and found myself alone.
Two days after that night, we gathered in a church, a thunderstorm raging above and around us.
First Communion day.
At one point before Mass, we were told to go down to the hall in the basement for a while because of possible tornadoes in the area. The sirens were, indeed, sounding.
As we filed down the stairs, Michael's sister joked that this was very appropriate, this moment being disrupted by weather, for Michael did love the weather. And she was right.
Joseph held up well. At home, getting dressed into his little navy suit, white shirt and tie, he cried a little. And so did I. But during Mass, he was fine: busy, jobs to do, absorbed. Serious.
I was all right. I was working hard, hard, hard on confronting myself with this faith, with the whole thing, and asking myself over and over, "Do you believe this?" and answering myself yes and then answering myself back again, "Well, then..."
The pastor preached powerfully about the love of God. He wandered a bit before he got there, but when he arrived, he would not let us turn from it. How much God loves us. Do you know? Do you see? Look at the Cross. Look at this gift he gives of himself in the Eucharist. Let the Good Shepherd love you and care for you.
Let him.
Joseph received Communion first, then rest of us did, and I knelt next to him in the pew.
I had brought along a prayer book that someone had kindly sent, embossed "In Memory of Michael Dubruiel." It has prayers for after Communion, and I was going to tell Joseph to read one, but I didn't have to. He picked it up and thumbed through it himself, found the prayers, and read - prayed - not just one, but all of them, silently, straight through.
Now, there is no blinding flash to report. The storm had passed. There was no jolting movement in my soul. But as I knelt beside Joseph with my arm around him leafing through the prayer book given in his daddy's name, I knew with a simple, assured sense that at that moment, we were still together - in Communion - and it was not a dream at all.
We were awake.
Add to Del.icio.us
Add to Technorati
Add to Digg
Add to Newsvine
Add to Facebook
Add to StumbleUpon
Sweet. May God's love, and his daddy's love, continue to bless Michael on all his future communion days as well (second holy communion! third! four thousandth!)
Thank you for sharing this, Amy.
R
Yes, I meant Joseph, not Michael. I'm sorry about that.
R.
Darn allergies.
*blow nose*
Amy,
Are you familiar with (Catholic) songwriter and artist Beth Nielsen Chapman? She also dealt with the loss of her husband at a young age, and her son was very young at the time. That experience was the foundation for many of the songs on her CD, Sand and Water. She came to mind when I read your post.
http://www.bethnielsenchapman.com/bethworld/htgh.html
When you share your personal experiences with grief, it has a deep and positive impact on others. Thank you. And God bless you and Joseph on his First Communion and always.
I don't know what to say, so I'll just pray.
Post a Comment
By submitting these comments, I agree to the beliefnet.com terms of service, rules of conduct and privacy policy (the "agreements"). I understand and agree that any content I post is licensed to beliefnet.com and may be used by beliefnet.com in accordance with the agreements.