The morning of Good Friday, my sleepy child hung on my
neck and looked at me with expectant eyes, seeking a distraction from his runny
nose. I looked at the gray skies out the window and, reflexively, began to sing
– You are my sunshine…my only sunshine!
With a quick smile, he began to laugh
and bounce.
Suddenly, an old familiar tune popped into my mind and
flowed from my mouth:
I see trees of
green, red roses, too,
I see them bloom for
me and you
and I think to
myself, 'What a wonderful world...'
My son's joy prompted me to search for and play the full
song. Louis Armstrong's serenade swirled us around the room as we sang and
danced. The final verse arrived and, before I knew it, tears began to brim in
my eyes with an unconscious recognition; I fell silent and just listened to the
poignant close:
I hear babies
crying, I watch them grow -
they'll learn much
more than I'll ever know,
and I think to
myself, 'What a wonderful world...'
I sighed and pulled my boy a little nearer. Nothing
has brought me closer to a sense of my own mortality than becoming a mother. I
have never so fiercely protected a life as I have his, and I have never valued
mine so highly until I felt his intrinsic dependence on me. I have said many
times that he teaches me how best to heal this world, and myself. He has
already been a natural instructor in letting things go. He shows, again and
again, that each day brings new possibility, that each new death yields life
formerly unimaginable.
The night before, the two of us gathered with community
members to honor the beginning of the Triduum. Imitating the symbolic image of
servanthood shared in the story that evening, the entire church took turns sitting
to have their feet washed and washing another’s feet. Because it was unscripted
and simple, resonant icons began to take form as person after person enacted the
ritual. Elders washed the feet of young members. Children washed their parents’
feet. Those who needed assistance nobly enacted the foot washing, slowly but
surely, with patience and help. Publicly-known disagreements, disputes, and
differences faded away as, sitting and resting feet in a bowl or taking up a
towel and pitcher, companionship was recognized in the mutual act of grace.
My son was fast asleep; I cradled him in my arms as I sat
down. The woman at my feet was a lifelong friend, the mother of my childhood
playmates, someone who has washed my feet before in many ways and times. We
both shed tears as she gently poured the water over my feet, then dried them. I
carefully lowered my son over the bowl and she washed his feet, too. He sighed
sweetly as he dreamt, held in the sacred space of being tended to without
reciprocation. We embraced, and she held my sleeping baby as I turned to wash
the feet of another.
The next morning, dancing to Louis Armstrong, my boy
sensed I was crying. He pulled back and looked me in the eyes, softly touched
my face, understood beyond understanding. Silently, he opened his mouth and pressed
it to my cheek.
I see friends
shaking hands, saying, ‘How do you do?’
They’re really
saying, ‘I love you…’
It is a magnificent mystery, the truth that my son will
see farther into the future than I; his eyes will look longer at the world than
mine. I sing to, clean, feed, comfort, play with, learn from, and love this
little boy...but I will not know the extent of his expansion. Although I receive
bountiful gifts from our life together, the direction of energy most often
feels outward and into him. But I trust that this watering of his small spirit
will yield seeds, then fruit; I know that my life is meaningful because I try, in
futile but dutiful ways, to leave this world more beautiful for him; I trust
that when my body finally falls into eternal rest, the continued animations of
his life will be as close to a personal immortality as I can imagine.
When I gathered at the
church again on Good Friday evening (this time leaving my sleepy little one at
home in his father’s arms), a familiar story of suffering-love was transformed.
Rather than hearing a story of a man’s self-sacrifice for a new world, I heard
the story of a son, loved and lost. In my mind’s eye, all I could see was Mary
at the foot of the cross.
Mary, Mother, looking up
at a son to whom she gave her life.
Mother, gazing at her
suffering son crucified unjustly…the eyes of countless women watching their
sons shot, beaten, executed, sent off to war.
Mother, holding her child
close…waking with him in the morning, dancing and singing with him, feeling his
wet kiss on her cheek.
Mother, living beyond what
her son would see – the cruel inverse of the right destiny of parents and children.
Mother Christ, borne through
a woman who had to watch her son die, then live into the mystery of continued
life.
Mother Christ, alive in women across the globe who have died to their old selves to give life to
their children and the children of all future generations.
I listened as, in the
circle of silence, the millennia-old story shifted to a litany calling those
gathered to open their hearts to the people of our planet still crucified.
Suffering people – a people of Passion, which means to hurt. Compassion – the place
of suffering together. Community – a place where suffering is transformed
through our oneness.
The starving, the tortured, the poor, the oppressed…Christ
borne as Children deserving of restoration of dignity so that they may live into the future they have come to manifest.
I watched as two women
danced around a simple, wooden cross that had traveled across Louisville
earlier that day, carried by pilgrims who stopped at living stations, places
representative of the injustice that still harms our human family. The women
danced, and I saw them as two spirits swirling around this wonderful world,
burning with flames that held the hurting, blazing with fire to heal the
harm.
There is death…and there is resurrection. Life is unfailing and resurrection
prevails. This is our Passion story of Easter hope: to continue to make the world new for our children.
Sunday dawned with brilliant
sunshine. The birds sang, the light drew the curtains, and my husband, child,
and I basked in the relaxed freshness of Easter morning.
Spring always returns;
babies continue to be born. The light always arrives after the rainfall. Eternity
comes in moments; salvation, in love.
I see skies of blue
and clouds of white,
the bright, blessed
day, the dark, sacred night,
and I think to
myself, 'What a wonderful world...'
To my astonishment, at my
in-laws' house, there was a little board book in my son’s Easter basket with a familiar title. My mother-in-law said she just knew we had to have it
when she saw it.
…Yes, I think to myself, ‘What a wonderful world.’
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