It’s a beautiful day outside, but, with my music on, I’m feeling memories of losses. With so much loss in our society today, I can put myself in the shoes of all who have lost children, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, and friends due to a disease we can’t seem to control either by our own denial that it exists or the government’s mismanagement and the birth of a new civil rights movement that’s trying to change systemic racism by either peaceful means or violent ones. Like so many other people, I wish my special people were here to guide me in these trying times, but their love remains in my heart as a protector of my soul.
When we lose someone, it’s not easy to view that person in a coffin or in a jade jar. We know they are gone from us, and they cannot feel physical pain any more. I am one of those left behind, as many of you are; there is a special place in my heart for the pain that surfaces every so often for each of my special people. It seems the more you have loved someone, the more that pain resonates in your life. That person’s spirit leaves a tiny trail of tears as you, the survivor, go on with your life.
I’m not speaking about the very sad and physically exhausting pain of the actual passing of that special person, but I am speaking of the love remaining behind. That love whispers in your ear in hard times and comforts you on the most beautiful days. Memories of that person serve as guides to each fork in the road you face and each day that seems harder than the last. Perhaps today, as beautiful as it is, reminds me of all those truly beautiful souls from the past that walk within me, raising me up and helping me to climb the tallest mountain and to cross the most rapid white waters. In the whispering winds, I hear God’s voice saying, “Peace be unto you.”
My first experience with loss was when my dear mother passed, fighting every inch of the way against a deadly kidney cancer. I can still hear her cries in the night from the pain and hear her pleading with God to make it stop. No child should ever see the gaping black hole at the base of their mother’s neck from cobalt treatments. As my mother was dying, I felt her strength ease into me; her strong faith has helped me in my times of uncertainty and physical illnesses. Her voice rang clear when I received a pre-cancer diagnosis years later. Wrapped around her voice was God’s voice; “Be still and know that I am.” (Psalm 46:10)
Carrying the only baby I would ever have and then losing it to a miscarriage nearly broke me in two. I was a first- year music teacher, and my husband was playing in a big band traveling jazz group. His parents were over-bearing and couldn’t help my insecurity and loneliness at the loss. In my sadness, I heard my mother saying, “It hurts now, but you will be all right. You can have another baby. God will walk by you side.” God has always been with me, but I couldn’t have another child. I have lived, vicariously, through my students.
When my dad passed away, I tried to come to terms with the fact that we hadn’t been close since my mother died. I regretted not being able to say, “Good-bye,” because he died alone in his apartment. Instead, I cherish the times from my childhood when I couldn’t wait to jump into his lap and tell him about my day. It is funny how those loving moments eventually overshadow any that weren’t so happy. I feel his hugs on those days when I wish I could be a little girl again, seeing him smile as I played in the yard or played the piano. Through the power of forgiveness, I know my father loved me, and that’s what really counts.
I tried to comfort my second husband as he was slowly passing in our home, but he pushed me away as though he didn’t want me to be pulled into his downward struggle. I tried to move him from the floor to the bed, but he was just too heavy. I knew he was gone when the EMT fireman came out into the kitchen, patted my shoulder, and asked if I had anyone to call for help. That loving gesture pulled me back from the shock and reminded me to call my school’s principal. It was two days before the Christmas vacation was to begin, and I hated not being there for my students. They were angels, and my colleagues were so lovingly helpful. When I sang to my husband at his funeral, I felt a peace I had not felt since his passing. As I looked at another crooked path, I felt God saying, “Fear not, for I am with you.” (Isaiah 41:10)
The most painful loss was of my third husband, Michael. The hole in my heart still opens up as I remember his love, strength, integrity, and understanding. We only had three and a half years together before God called him home, but those were the most beautiful years of my life. Our love was based on the words, “Always and forever;” we reminded ourselves of how lucky we were to have found each other in such a hostile world. I’m glad he is not in pain, but I am also glad he is not witnessing this pandemic and the social unrest of today. These past seven years have been a reminder that, although he is not in my arms, he is very much in my heart. I treasure the days I have left but look forward to seeing him again someday in heaven. The more you love a person, the more pain you feel; I can also say the more you love a person, the more joy you have to carry you along life’s journey.
In closing, I walk in the shoes of everyone who has lost a loved one. Your pain resonates within my very soul; our shared tears cleanse the earth where our loved ones are buried. Our songs carry the same loving messages they planted in us and rest in the hearts of those who are feeling lost today. We pray for God’s help in these troubled times. As Alfred Lord Tennyson said, “I hold it true, what’er befall; I feel is when I sorrow most; ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.'”
Anna Hartt
