Monday, September 9, 2024

The Gift of Such a One

Today two of my favorite people on the planet married each other. 

For both, this is their second marriage. The second time they've promised to love, and cherish, and have, and hold... forsaking all others—promising all of it "for as long as they both shall live." 

We promise to do this thing "until death parts us." And the first time—you know, when you're 20-something and don't know much at all about marriage, or love, or the world... or anything, really—you speak those words like they mean "for a really long time," or maybe even "forever"... but in this far-off, distant, never-really-gonna-get-there way that makes sense, when you know everything—and nothing—all at once. 20-something.

This time around, they know—and I mean know—what they're promising. At 50-something, they've lived it. For one, the holding of the hands through decades of cancer's ravaging scourge, the hands cupping the face until the bitter end of the journey... gazing into wild eyes lost in the pain of this unnatural departure. For the other, the devastation of the broken vow, the fracturing of what was believed to be secure, unbreakable. "I would like to end it," and holding tight through the tempest of all that ensues. The devastated mother and son trying to find footing in the world gone mad, with the departure of dad.

I have prayed with, and for, both of these precious ones—each one walking the path of pain and loss and hope and trust, each one seeking the will of the One who holds them fast "while sea billows roll." So to see them find one another... and to find love again, in one another... has been one of the deepest joys of this season of my earthly life. Thank you, Lord, for redemption and joy and gladness, in the midst of all the pain and sorrow and grief that accompanies us on this journey called life.

I process things in poetry—always have. The urge is always strong to take to stanza and verse when I want to communicate something deep, and tricky, and a little bit elusive. This is the poem I wrote when they asked me to speak at their reception, sharing a little of what it has meant to walk through this with each of them, over years. As the one who has known each of them longer than anyone else—most in attendance had only known one or the other, but not both, for any length of time—I got to speak. This poem was part of my offering.*


The Gift of Such a One


“You find your Cheris and Kathys and Christines," 

I had told my girls.

“They don’t come around very often. 

So you find ‘em and hold on tight!”


Something happens 

when you’re friends with someone 

from your youth 

And you grow up together

Over years 

And seasons

And seasons  

And years


When you’re in it for the long haul.


Maybe. 

Hopefully.


But you never really know for sure

Now do you?


Because sometimes you’re great

But sometimes you’re awful

And there’s no hiding it 

from the forever friend 


Gracious 

And kind

And generous.

But sometimes rude

And selfish

And mean.


Arrogant

And proud

And so very self-absorbed 


One can never really know 

if the friendship

Is gonna hold.

Is gonna make it.

Is gonna take it.


Is gonna survive the different stages

And seasons.

And all the stuff

That dreams are made of


And fears


And hopes


When you walk through life.

Through pain and sickness and grief and loss. 


There is only one that will never leave you nor forsake you

Never walk away

Never choose to go


But sometimes in the midst of all the betrayal

And all the loss

And all the fear

And all the pain


He gives the gift of one

who reaches out

And takes your hands.

“Ssshh. There, there.

Let’s walk together.”


And he wraps his fingers carefully in yours

Fixing his eyes firmly on what may come


Thank you for the gift of such a one

Who whispers, “I’m not going anywhere”

And somehow makes me believe it


And for a blessed handful few others 


Thank you for bringing them to me

And then, to each other


© 2024 Laurie Sitterding

*Wedding photo credits: Danielle Haudricourt

Friday, August 9, 2024

The Last Time

The last time I held your hand

Could have been today

Had I been brave enough 

to reach out

and feel the cold.

 

But I wasn’t

And now you’re gone

 

Were they careful when they carried you away?

Respectful?

Was there honor and reverence at the privilege

Of bearing the bones

Of so great a man

On his one last journey?

One last car ride.

One final trip. 

 

From my quiet corner

I watched the birth kids hold

the cold hand.

And kiss the cold, yellowed brow.

And brush the full head of magnificent hair.

One last time.

One last sob.

One more deep, guttural groan of grief. 

 

I stood silent in the corner

Willing myself to watch in wonder

In spite of your breathless chest 

And your ever-smiling eyes 

Shut tight.

No furrow in the 90-year brow

At all

Anymore 

 

(What do you now know that we don’t?)

 

I, the one who came to this family late.

Taking his name… your name.

 

In law.

What a phrase.

So transactional.

It could never capture what it is to love a man

And then be invited into his family.

Loved like a daughter.

But not quite.

 

Of course, not quite

the same.

Not really the same at all

as the one who is bone of your bones.


Flesh of your flesh.

The perfect reflection of the perfect one you chose 

all those years ago.

Who departed all those years ago

And left you with her mirror image 

growing up 

before your eyes.

 

You loved me the best you could

As the one who stole your son

Then made him a father

And you a grandfather

And then a great-grandfather

 

I loved you deeply.

Fiercely.

And with not a little frustration, at times.

Just like you loved me.

 

I wanted the last time I had held your hand 

to be when it was warm.

Gnarled, curled fingers

Wrapped around mine

Squeezing a thank you you could no longer speak 

 

That’s the hand I will remember. 

 

And the one that reached out into the air

Grasping for things unseen.

Trapped between two worlds 

And ready to go 

 

I don’t know who I was that day

When you reached out and buried your hand in her hair

And caressed her head with such tenderness

But I will remember that hand 

Buried against my cheek

And weep 



© 2024 Laurie Sitterding
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I process things in poetry. Always have. The heavier the thing, the stronger the drive to take to stanzas and verse. 

For the last 11 weeks we have been on a rollercoaster ride with our dear Opa, through two big falls, two brain bleeds, one brain surgery, lots of hard work and physical therapy, lots of wishes to leave this earth and go home to be with the Lord. It’s been exhausting to lose this summer (entirely—like I didn’t even notice it pass, because it was filled with working and visiting Opa, and little else). 

The details of the journey are unimportant, but the final end is that he passed into eternal glory yesterday, 11 weeks to the day after the first of two falls. I will miss him every day of my life until the end of it. He was a constant fixture and presence of wisdom and wry humor and smiling eyes and a deep, gruff voice that greeted me always with “Moooorrrgen,” whatever the time of day. I am just beginning to process what it means that he isn’t here, though I have imagined the day for over a decade, since his beloved wife departed earth ahead of him, and far too soon. Indeed, the Smiling Eyes have joined the Delightful Laugh on streets of gold. In fields of green. By quiet streams.

This is the poem I wrote, using this month's writing prompt for Poets Online—to use the phrase "the last time" in some way. It was chosen for publication. I wonder if Opa would have been proud... or maybe just a little bit embarrassed. 

Rest well, fine sir. I miss you every single day. I know I will see you soon... for "what are days and weeks and months and years," really?