A little soul for All Souls Day

This weekend I had another one of my 4:00 a.m. wake-up calls and my thoughts went to the word, soul.  I knew I needed to get up and write it all down, but God must have known I needed sleep so he didn’t push me.  But that Spirit, ever so Holy, has been needling me since, and I still can’t get the thought of the soul out of my mind.  Now here it is All Souls Day, a flashing sign to get to work if ever there was one. 

 

Last year my sisters, my cousin the Artist, one of the twin girls, and I spent a day with my aunt, the Sister, and I recorded the whole day on a small voice recorder I bought just for that purpose.  Being a nun afforded my aunt the honorary title of Family Spiritual Advisor.  My mother never put much credence in anything her children told her, but there were three people to whom she heeded all advice: her sister the Sister, any priest, and any doctor (in that order).  If my aunt said it to be so then it was and that was the end of that.  So it was no surprise many of the questions we asked my aunt that day leaned towards spiritual matters.  One conversation went like this,

The Artist: “Aunt Frances do you believe that your mama and daddy and sisters and brothers will be sitting there at your last breath waiting to take you to heaven?”

Aunt Frances: “No, because they say when you die you don’t think of anybody. It’s such peace, such happiness you don’t see anybody.  Just God.  You know, we try to figure God out; we can’t do it.  We can’t.  It’s impossible.  It’s impossible.”

I could see the disappointment in my family’s faces and hear it between the lines of the recording.  We all want to believe we will be reunited with our loved ones, that they will be there waiting to embrace us like the end scene in “Ghost”.  I want to believe that, truly, I do, but I’m beginning to shift towards my aunt’s beliefs and another idea entirely. 

You see, I believe we humans can only think in an earthly way because that is the way we are wired.  The bible says so, “And the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground..” Genesis 2:7.  Our meager human minds cannot grasp the reality of heaven.  We can only imagine it from the smidgen of description that has been revealed in God’s Word.  We have too much dusty ground in us to understand the whole truth.

That verse continues, and it is this last part which holds the basis of my theory, “… and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.”

God gave life to mankind and we became living souls.  Have you ever counted how many times the word, soul, appears in the bible?  I have, with the help of an electronic bible, of course.  In the King James Version the word, soul, appears 459 times in 432 different verses.  The bible pairs the words heart and soul about 73 times.  As in Matthew 22:37 when Jesus said, “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.”  Our soul is as much of our being as our heart or our brain. 

 

All of these little tidbits are meant to bring you to my new revelation.  I think when God breathed life into Adam and made him a living soul He gave a bit of himself in each of us.  We strive for heaven not because we will be reunited with individuals, but because our souls must be reunited with God’s.   Each of us carries within us a piece of a puzzle that fits in a certain place.  When we get to heaven our souls will interlock with each other’s and stitch together as a collective, eternal voice of praise.  In this way, yes, we will be reunited with those who have gone before us, but in a way we cannot possibly understand while our bodies remain grounded.  I am not a theologian and I did not spend hours studying God’s Word to come to this conclusion, so this is only my opinion, not gospel.  You should study for yourself and listen for God to reveal Himself to you. 

As my aunt said, “You know, we try to figure God out; we can’t do it.  We can’t.  It’s impossible.  It’s impossible.”  I have to believe she’s telling the truth.  My mother would insist on it.

Rainy days and awkward moments

More times than not in my life I have been confronted with awkward situations.  In fact I could honestly say I feel awkward at some point most every day.  For example…

I never quite know what to do with my hands during a conversation.  I end up flailing them around in gesticulations that look like American Sign Language gone horribly wrong.  Or sometimes they go straight to my hair or face leaving me with a bad case of the frizzies and smeared make-up.  

Make-up is awkward for me since I never wore it until only a few years ago after rosacea and hyper-pigmentation laid claim to my complexion.  My mother didn’t wear make-up either, so there was never a mother-daughter bonding session over the art of matching foundation to skin tone.  No one has ever sat down with me and gave me instructions so I’ve had to wing it on my own.  I usually feel confident until the eyebrow pencil comes out, the one thing for which I have actually received lessons in a bonding session with that pesky sister.  All and all the whole exercise in achieving the look of natural, flawless skin is hit or miss, mostly miss, and never fully polished.

Nail polish is equally awkward for me because it calls attention to my flailing gesticulations.  Air-traffic controller comes immediately to mind.

Small talk is awkward because it’s chatty and I don’t do chatty.  “How are you?” “Have a good day.”  These statements are about as small as my talk can go. I’d rather ask “Explain your rationale to coming to that conclusion”, or “How does that make you feel”, or “Tell me what your house looks like in (enter any country here).”  These are topics I’m more interested in, not whether the weather will hold or turn cold.

Clothing in general causes me distress.  I’ve never been one to wear career clothing because it’s not the way I feel inside so I feel pretentious in suits and heels.  I would much rather attempt to disguise my shape by hiding in layers of flowing frippery with lots of pretty jewelry for added distraction.  Dresses are awkward because they show off my thick calves and draw attention to my unflattering shoes.  I wear unflattering shoes because clunky is the only style the stores sell in my size.  

This fact was driven home yet again today after an unsuccessful shoe shopping trip.  The husband found a good pair for himself, and I must admit to a slight pang of jealousy when I pulled up my text messages so he could get 20% off his find.  To drive my point home I did not offer my wallet to the store clerk.  I left empty-handed and ended up getting drenched in the downpour that started while I was limping around the store with one shoe on and one shoe off in search of shoe boxes with the dreaded orange “W” sticker.  Diddle, diddle dumpling comes immediately to mind.

The Rainstorm that Rescheduled Halloween is what inspired this essay in the first place.  After the shoe store we switched to grocery shopping, and I carried my umbrella into the store because one soaking was more than enough for the day.  While we were shopping a tornado warning herded all of the customers to the center of the store, an experience I hope to never have again.  I figured the rain would stop by the time we finished shopping and were ready to leave.   That was not the case, which led me to today’s awkward moment. 

 

I remember years ago having a conversation about my disdain for umbrellas. Back then I was young and carefree and walking in the rain was an expression of my youth. I didn’t wear make-up that would smear, and it was the 1980s when frizzy hair was the norm so a little rain was not problem for me.  I love the image of an umbrella.  I’m always drawn to paintings or photographs with umbrellas as the main subject.  I just don’t want to carry one.  I feel clumsy and unsure with an open umbrella over my head.  I know it sounds ridiculous, but what is proper umbrella etiquette?   Where do you hold it?  If I hold it upright by the handle I feel like foolish, so I end up holding it in the middle which makes me feel gawkish.   Should the canopy be held high and mighty or low and brooding?  Maybe it should be held carefree at a rakish angle like Debbie Reynolds in Singing in the Rain.  

Since I'm on the subject, what about sharing an umbrella? In my opinion sharing should only be done as a kind gesture to old people or small children, with your spouse, or early in a budding romance when you are looking for any excuse to be close to your crush.  “I feel rain, falling right out of the blue sky…” is a song lyric that comes immediately to mind.  Otherwise open umbrellas should indicate a personal space and that boundary should never be compromised.  I will share with the husband, but that’s only because I don’t mind touching him.  If, and only if sharing is absolutely necessary then the handle holding should always default to the taller person.  I should be etching this in stone.

There are things I’m never going to feel comfortable doing. I have made great strides, though, and I surprise myself sometimes.  As a matter of fact I had one of those “I shall overcome” moments today as I tried to get a container of feta cheese that was too far back on the top shelf for me to reach.  A tall man was standing nearby, and I asked him to get it for me.  There was a time when I would have decided I didn't really need feta cheese after all, but today I reached out to a stranger and risked rejection all for a $3.97 container of feta cheese.  On the other hand, if he had needed to share my umbrella to make it to his car he would have been out of luck.  I haven't overcome it all, not yet anyway.

Like sparks in fireworks

I stood near the road in the darkness, the full moon peaking over the trees behind me, and focused my eyes on the sky above the field across the way to watch a grand display of whizzing rockets turn curlicues and loop-de-loops and finish in bursting sprays of fiery sparks.  I watched the colors of red, green, and gold bathe the faces of the other spectators all looking up, hoping you were looking down.   Did you hear the report resonating through the oaks?  I tried to count to see if there would be 27 blasts, one for each year since the day you were born.  Or maybe 11, one for each year you have been gone.  There were far more than 11, 27, or 38 even.  Some were colors of happiness, like the kind of happiness in your eyes when something made you smile.  Some were crackling showers of glittery, golden sparks like the effervescence of your youth.  They were all for you, a gift from your parents whose grief will always be near the surface and easily touched on marked days like the anniversary of your accident, your death day, Christmas and all the other 362 days of the year.  But on your birthday they celebrate your being with friends and family just like the 16 birthdays you had while you were here.

I will always regret we were not as close as we could have been.  The rush of busy living kept our paths moving in opposite directions.  Still, I have memories.  I remember a little baby with head full of black hair sticking out in all directions.  I remember the same baby growing up with a head full of straight, blonde hair the color of sunshine.  I remember the day I saw you out shopping and you rushed to me like an old friend.  I was surprised to see you had chosen to darken your hair when most young girls go to great lengths to achieve your natural color.   You were in a happy place on that day just months, maybe less, from the day you would no longer be here.  I remember your 16^th birthday, the one with all the white tents and red roses.  We posed together for a picture that night.

After that the memories are not as fondly welcomed.  I remember where I was sitting and the position of the telephone on my desk when I received the call of your accident.  My first instinct was to let it go as something minor, but there was a nagging in my hearth that urged me to the hospital and within 10 minutes I was on my way.    I remember the other call and location of that telephone when the voice on the other end said it was bad and you were fading fast.  The remnants of a distant hurricane still blew in the air, and I remember wet leaves stuck to the hood of the car and the sidewalks as I made my way once again to the hospital.  I remember seeing you there, sleeping.  I remember the utter grief in the room where we gathered as a family and were told of your destiny.  I remember the long line of fallen faces waiting outside the door, and hoping not to meet any of the hopeful eyes searching for answers, or miracles.

But one memory is mine and mine alone.  It is of the night a month or so later when you came to me in a dream.  The effervescence of your joy showered me like those crackling golden sparks of the fireworks on your birthday.  You were jubilant!  You were at peace and for whatever reason you chose to let me in on it.  I know you visited me that night.  I felt the warmth of the hug you gave me before you told me you were happy and had found friends and then ran off, smiling, to your everlasting reward.

As I stood near the road and felt the blast of the report reverberate in my chest I remembered the good things and hoped you, too, were watching the trails of the fiery rockets as they headed towards heaven, your everlasting reward.

Matthew 18:20

On the occasion of my graduation from eighth grade at my Catholic elementary school my classmates voted me most likely to become a nun.  I already had one nun in the family, but unlike my aunt I did not receive a divine calling to the sisterhood.  I had not found Jesus yet.  Of course I knew Jesus; He was ever present in my home and in my school, hanging on a crucifix in every classroom and living in the tabernacle behind the church altar.  I also loved Him and recognized Him as my God and savior.  I just had not found Him yet.

A few years later when I was in college I found Jesus while wading in the water in Ocho Rios, Jamaica.  I stepped on something sharp and hard and reached down in search of the hidden treasure.  It was Jesus hanging on a corroded blue plastic crucifix buried in the sand.  I pulled Him out of the Caribbean and brought Him home with me.  I also found Jesus once in a drawing I made of Him on a small scrap of paper.  It was an amazing likeness to something Da Vinci might have painted.  I slid Him under my sister’s pillow as she lay in a coma a few months before she met Him in person.  

My cousin, the one I wasn’t afraid to ride with when I was five, once found Jesus in a parking lot.  This time He was disguised in gold filigree and fit to hang on a chain about the neck.

Jesus has shown Himself to me in many odd and wonderful ways such as outlines in the natural striations on granite floors, images in stained glass windows, and eclectic statuary.  Just yesterday I found Him in many different forms in an old jewelry box I rummaged through in search of that corroded blue plastic crucifix I brought home from Jamaica 29 years ago. 

A person of Catholic upbringing is expected to meet Jesus in the sacraments they receive as rites of faith.  Even though I made my first communion when I was eight my first real encounter with the Son of Man was 20 years later in a Eucharistic celebration in my sister’s hospital room after she awoke from her coma.  The hospital’s resident priest came to her room to give her communion and offered it to those of us with her as well.  I felt Jesus standing with us that evening, as two or more of us were gathered in His name, so there was He in our midst.  Jesus was physically present in that moment as sure as I live and breathe.

Since that night I have met Him many more times, but most recently, in a twist of ironic fate, I met Jesus at a convent of all places.  My classmates’ votes did not send me there, but instead I went to celebrate my aunt’s calling and 70^th year anniversary as a Sister of Mercy.  The ceremonial mass was held in the chapel at the Mercy Center retreat house in St. Louis.  The round chapel there is ringed by incredible stained-glass windows portraying the corporal and spiritual works of mercy the sisters have vowed to uphold.  I found Him there in glass portraiture and I found Him carved in exquisite marble.  But I met Him in the voices of the nuns who had gathered for the celebration as they sang the Suspice during the few moments of silent prayer following communion.  The unrehearsed, spontaneous harmony of the group of women sitting throughout the chapel resonated with angelic content.  I sat with my eyes closed and allowed the music to settle in my soul and my spirit both soared and rested in peaceful synchronicity.  

It was then, during that ardent song, when two or more of us were gathered in His name, was He again there in our midst.

Not just in June

Father’s Day, bah humbug.  Pardon me for the negativity on what is a special day for fathers around the country.  I do appreciate my husband for being a good and morally supportive father to my children.  If it had not been for him I might have run away a time or two, but he has always been there to pick up the pieces in my times of faltering motherhood and made sure the meals were cooked, the clothes were washed and the school projects were finished on time.  For him I offer my utmost gratitude on this third Sunday in June.

The humbuggery attitude comes from that little pit of emptiness that I feel when confronted with the fact my father is no longer here to celebrate.  No longer do I get the chance to hear him say, “Looka here, looka here,” as he opened another can of peanuts, bag of birdseed, or Guayabera shirt.  Daddy never asked for gifts.  He used to say all he needed was a box to put it in.  After he died I learned that the box he kept it in was full to the top of gifts he never even took out of the package. I pilfered the stash and kept a Guayabera or two still sealed in the plastic bag they came in. 

Earlier this evening my sister, the Middle Child, posted a picture of Daddy and her husband, John, on what appear to be a Christmas morning many years ago.  I surmised Christmas because poor John looks as if he hasn’t slept in a week, and Daddy is grinning ear to ear.  Daddy was always joyful at Christmas.  Another clue is he has his glasses in his hand, a sign he had been reading.  He read and studied every nametag, package and instruction sheet before going to the next gift. 

I wish there was more in the frame.  I want to see the entire kitchen with the table covered in gift wrap and platters of good things to eat.  I want to see the stovetop with its splattered backsplash and pots on every eye.  All I do see is an empty paper towel roll and the drying rack Mama kept on the counter next to the sink.  The cabinets are blue so I know the picture was taken before the last kitchen remodel.  In my mind I can visualize what I would see if the doors were opened; drinkware in the one behind Daddy and dishes of varied patterns and sizes on the left side behind John.  On the right side I would see stacks of casserole dishes and mixing bowls.  It’s a miracle the shelves did not sag from the weight of it all.  The lower cabinet between them held bottles of alcoholic beverages and a bottle of moonshine or two all older than whatever my age was at the time.  My parents kept it for company but never drank it themselves.  It was so rarely touched it was mostly forgotten.

Just when I think my mind is shot and I can’t remember anything a picture like this surfaces and I remember everything.  Unlike those dusty bottles of booze in that lower cupboard the memories of my father are always close enough to touch and never forgotten.  He is with me always, and I do not need a Sunday in June to remind me.