Today, and for the last few days, I have been immersed in life with Steve's parents, siblings, children, nieces, nephews, aunts and uncles and old friends. Steve's parents live in a house that lures one to sleep, to rest - it is full of 'shalom.' It's funny because one of the relatives often refers to Gammy and Bebob's house as 'full of chaos!' But for me, this is a home full of love, acceptance and laughter laced with intermittent tears.
Thanksgiving Day brought the traditional meal, cooking parallel, toasting to the joy of togetherness and overeating.
But today many of us are still in our jammies and for most of the day five of us have been sitting at the dining room table enjoying our laptops, with the canal waters drifting by out the dining room windows. I have been perusing Steve's documents saved on a hard drive that I have not had access to before.
And I found this hidden poem, written by Steve in 2009 or so.
On Mark 5…
Cast to the side where death hovers like a cloud.
Neighbors look away, stop their ears.
Tormented cries ignored
Night and day out among the tombs.
Healers can’t heal. Life leaks away.
“Unclean!” No priestly words.
“Unclean!” No husband’s touch.
Tender, bright young eyes close.
The pulse slows then stops.
“Not a child!”
“Not a little child!”
Death. Fear. All alone.
Who is this who walks through the death cloud,
Whose voice reaches the lonely dead and dying?
A mind cleared.
A body healed.
Sleepy eyes open.
Life. Peace. Faith. Wonder.