The ickiness continues. And the more I search my brain for words to write, the emptier my brain becomes.
Yuck. Or should I say, Ick? Or should I say, “Take two brownies and call me in the morning?” Yes, THAT is the solution!
So since I am in a sort of unwritable frame of mind today, and since my sister, Ruth (whose writing I featured here a couple weeks ago) has many things to share, I will feature another one of her pieces for your enjoyment.
Thanks, Ruth, for letting me share your beautiful gift for words and for giving me time to wallow in my ickiness. (wallow, wallow)
What you are about to read is something that Ruth wrote after her family lost their house in a fire. If you’ve ever been through that tragedy, or know someone who has, her writing will especially resonate with you. But even if you haven’t been through it, the way she sums up her story will be an encouragement and inspiration to us all.
FINAL RITES
I attended a violent funeral today.
A ghostly, gray pallor hovered over the incredible scene I encountered as I hastily pulled up to the site. Jumping from the car, I could barely comprehend how this could be happening. Impossible, unthinkable and unbelievable.
My hand covered my mouth in shock and horror, my mind went numb. Dazed I stood alone before the savage sight of my dear old home attacked and disfigured by a monstrous, awful enemy...fire.
In my absence, death had invaded my private domain, a torrent of merciless heat and flames had surged through the house, eating it alive--relishing the dusty wood flavor and licking its greedy lips for more and more. There had been no time to say goodbye, no way to know or even think... death simply struck... without warning.
The house had given no signals or symptoms that it was close to its demise or that this was to be its last day on earth, sheltering and standing watch over me, so humbly and patiently, year after year. The familiar front porch had always been ready and waiting, like a comfortable lap, eager to provide rest and retreat
Our home was rather old, one hundred years or so, with a definite limp in his left hip and with the westward wall always leaning a tad too far off course--at least on the imaginary plumb line in my mind's eye.
If I had known he would be leaving today, I would have slowed down on the way out that morning. I would have run a slow hand along the back door frame as I hurried out, pausing to look back over my shoulder at the cozy, quiet rooms. I would have glanced up at the straight roof peak so tall against the misty, spring sky. But I did not. I just rushed on my way through the day.
He fell ill today, violently and severe. A sinister plague leapt upon him, hanging in the air with a gloomy aura of lurking catastrophe. When I came home,I saw the vicious smoke gathering strength and venom, biting and tearing, leaping triumphantly out the upper windows. My heart beat wildly while I stood helpless, watching the struggle rage on--the haughty inferno swaggering in, taking total control of my crippled abode.
As my home continued to burn, I walked to a young apple tree at the edge of the yard, fastening my eyes and soul on the horrible spectacle before me. Leaning a shoulder into the tree’s slim trunk, I tilted my head on the rough bark and stood, mesmerized. This was it. It was over. Hopeless. No possible way to rescue or bring sustenance back to the fire-battered boards, so black and fragile, bare to the bone before me, struggling to stay upright.
Finally, tottering on its decrepit stonewalls, the house shuddered and collapsed. Bravely it died, that much I sensed. Its time of service was done. It was okay, I told him. Go on to your well-earned rest, give up all the ghosts of your long, faithful past. I will miss the quiet, precious haven you provided but go...like a puppy going to his beloved master... the simple image soothed my weary mind.
The tears came easily, flowing constantly. I turned away from the trucks, sirens, shouting men and clung to my little apple tree. Soon I felt big arms come around me, encircling the solid trunk in the shared embrace. Without turning, I knew the source of solace offered --my husband. We had not yet spoken, just looked at our dying house and each other.
Grief met in the smoky air between us, but the firm sapling held us up, entered our tight circle of love and pain, hovered over us like a protective umbrella. Later on, moving a little closer, I stand right up before the front steps, looking down into the bleak, ugly hole and seeing the two iron hand rails flanking the only remnant left of the huge body of our dear home. They seem like solemn tombstones, quietly grand and still simple, somehow poetic to my soul.
It is very sad to see a house die... your house... your shelter from the storms of life. I feel a little bareheaded, a bit vulnerable, while a blank gaping hole looms where something solid and real should be standing. My shocked emotions tell me this isn't right, cannot happen, but it did and there is no bringing it back.
And yet, as I gaze across to the hills, so sweet with fresh, green light emerging in every nook and cranny, I know that there is a future and a hope. Always, hope prevails in this life, soothing the pains and troubles that heave up in our pathway, attempting to destroy and bring us low in despair.
"I will lift up my eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved; he that keepeth thee will not slumber." (Psalm l2l
The ancient phrase leaps into my mind and causes hope to return--for life, for family, for springtime. It is washing through me in tidal waves of abundant peace.
I have a sure foundation, a rock in the storm. I will not falter for I am held in the arms of the Almighty.
Life is here. Now.
By: Ruth Rehberg April 30, 2004
