Yesterday, in the middle of this Holy Week, I had the privilege of spending some time with a 5-month-old baby and holding him in my arms.
We walked through the front courtyard and then onto the big lawn in front of Redeemer, under the bright blue sky. Birds chirped as he cooed. His arms and legs occasionally shimmied with excitement. His eyes grew wide, soaking in springtime coming alive all around us.
From the lawn, I carried this precious one to the coolness of our new columbarium. As we passed by the benches and niches, the names of beloved departed witnessed our brief walking tour.
From there, we went into the church, which takes my breath away every time I step foot inside, and even more so, the longer I’ve been at Redeemer. The light coming in through the stained glass reflected off his full, pink cheeks and bounced off his fleshy feet and toes. The stone felt cool beneath my own feet. The wooden beams overhead creaked ever so slightly. The pews sat empty, save for some pieces of artwork waiting to be hung, in anticipation of this weekend.
I noticed his eyelids were getting heavy (and perhaps, mine were, too) so we settled into the rocking chair in the children’s nook of the south transept. The wooden beams overhead creaked a bit more, its own kind of lullaby, as I rocked him.
And as I sat there, holding this dear one in my arms and reflecting on what lies ahead of us, as people of faith, these next few days – the opportunities to remember and reflect together on the ancient stories, ever new, of our Saviour’s suffering, death, and rising – I couldn’t help but also think of Jesus’ mother: how she held and rocked him as a baby, walking with him under bright blue skies, listening to him coo, watching his eyelids grow heavy. I couldn’t help but think of the suffering of all parents, parent-figures, and mentors, when one into whom we have poured our life and our love, dies ahead of us, for whatever reason. It seems to go against the cycle of life and of nature, the way things are “supposed” to go. It’s enough to take my breath away and breaks my heart wide, wide open.
Hebrew poet Judah Halevi puts it this way:
‘Tis a fearful thing
to love what death can touch.
A fearful thing
to love, to hope, to dream, to be –
to be,
And oh, to lose.
A thing for fools, this,
And a holy thing,
a holy thing
to love.
For your life has lived in me,
your laugh once lifted me,
your word was gift to me.
To remember this brings painful joy.
‘Tis a human thing, love,
a holy thing, to love
what death has touched.”
As we enter into the very heart of our sacred story together as people of faith – seeking, wondering, wandering, finding our way into believing – may the One Who Is and Who Holds All reveal to us anew the way that leads from death to life.
~Cristina