Sorrow's Words Are Seldom What We Pray

One thing I’ve noticed lately; I’m beginning to have the hands of an old woman.  The skin on my hand is starting to look like the skin on an elephant’s torso: loose, wrinkled, saggy, baggy, anything but taut and young.  Okay, so I have the hands of an older woman.  Funny though, inside my head I feel the same as when I was in high school.  Notice, I said inside my HEAD; my knees, fingers, shoulders, back, feet all feel the wear of 55 years of use.  And it’s just beginning, judging by my older friends and family and their various ailments.  However, for every older person that is ailing, I can point to another older person who is doing just fine, thank you.  Of course, it depends on what age one defines as “older”!  To my husband, my parents, many friends in my church, I’m just a spring chicken!

Speaking of aging, my husband and I attended a memorial service on Monday, and will be attending another one on Saturday, both members of our church. One of them was a coffee-drinking buddy of my husband.  This man was not afraid to die.  He was doing something much more difficult.  He was daily dealing with the incredible burden of painful and uncomfortable living; of years with a terminal disease. He spoke often of being ready to die, of being assured of his place with Christ in the next life.  And so when he did die, he did it peacefully, with dignity, and I imagine an incredible sense of relief.

Because we are witnessing the aging and dying of friends, family and acquaintances, Bob and I decided we must get down to the murky work of plotting our own memorial services.  I know a dear lady who was in a terrible predicament a few years back when her husband died.  Her husband was one of those characters that pretends he’s not aging.  So much so, he refused to step inside a nursing home…even if it meant visiting a friend who had been admitted.  Talk about denial (which actually is a way to mask fear.)  Don’t get me wrong.  I liked this guy very much.  He was a sweet, funny old man, who teased the children and always made me laugh.  But because of this denial, he and his wife had never planned for his funeral/memorial service. My friend was more stressed than she should have been; because in addition to the grief, she, her family and our pastor had to work out the messy details of trying to guess what “he might have wanted”.

That’s probably one of the benefits of a terminal illness.  The people I’ve known who have dealt with a terminal illness such as cancer must come face-to-face with the end of their life on earth.  Sudden death does not give the survivors that luxury.  So, in my type-A, “be prepared” way, I told my husband yesterday, I don’t want to have to deal with that.  And being the list-maker I am, that task is on our “to-do” list TODAY! I'm sure we won't get it finished, but we do the most difficult part--begin talking about it.

Below is a poem I wrote about three years ago, and unlike most of the other poems I post on my blog, this one has never been revised.  (Which means it is most likely far from finished, if such ever happens!) This poem is an example of a “villanelle” -- one of many poetry forms that I’ve been trying.  A villanelle is very structured in that in has nineteen lines with certain lines repeated in different stanzas.  End rhymes are also part of this structure.  I think they are enjoyable to write, as they allow my mind to create in a way I might not otherwise, and in this case, about a not so pleasant topic: grief, loss, death.

Grief Song (a villanelle)

The night must come before we see the day.

We children never want to go to bed.

Sorrow’s words are seldom what we pray.

The dark, inviting, only when we stray

from righteousness or flee the things we dread.

The night must come before we see the day.

A birth, a beginning, a proud display

is nothing but a raising from the dead.

Sorrow’s words are seldom what we pray.

Why is it that we want to lead the way?

To always win, to be in bliss?  Instead,

the night must come before we see the day.

The young are often easily led astray.

The old do what it takes to stay ahead. 

Sorrow’s words are seldom what we pray.

No matter who we are we all must pay

a painful penance, a gift of grief, tears are shed.

The night must come before we see the day.

Sorrow’s words are seldom what we pray.