We Live, We Die

I was privileged to visit a sweet young mother today who gave birth to an adorable baby girl yesterday. It was such a nice, if brief, visit for me. I love the sweet spirit present when a new baby comes into the world. I shared a poem by Carol Lynn Pearson that was shared with me when I was expecting my first child almost 22 years ago. I don't know if I remember it completely, as it was spoken to me, and though I have a relatively good memory, I'm not sure if this is correct:

Day Old Child by Carol Lynn Pearson
My day old child lay in my arms.
With my lips pressed against his ear, I whispered softly:
How I wish, I wish that you could hear.
I've a hundred wonderful things to say,
(a tiny cough and a nod)
Hurry! Hurry! Hurry and grow, so I can tell you about God.

My day old baby's lips were still,
And my words only tickled his ear,
But a kind of light passed through his eyes,
And I saw this thought appear:
How I wish I had a voice and words!
I've a hundred things to say.
Before I forget, I'd tell you of God,
For I left him yesterday.

It is an emotional time for me. The woman in whom this mother's love and appreciation was sparked because of my own birth is lying in a hospital bed with what the doctor gives as a fifty-fifty chance for recovery. How quickly I imagine it seems to her that her life has come and now almost gone. How soon will it seem to me that my own life has passed, when I find myself in her position.

It seems not so long ago I was carrying my first child in my belly. It seems not so long ago I was a child myself. I see my last little baby (now almost a year old) lying, sleeping peacefully beside me on the bed as these keys click away in the night. I know he is someone's grandfather. I wonder who will visit him when he is old and in the ICU? Will it seem not so long ago to him that his own first child was born? Will that first child of his have any memory of me at all?

Joshua will not know my mother. I was born when she was my age. Now, I'm 40 and she is in her 80's... he is only 10 months old. I imagine I won't know all of my own grandchildren, either. Perhaps I won't be there to recite a favorite poem to their mother or father shortly after their birth. I hope they will have my journals, my photographs, my blog by which to know me, at least.

I'm reminded of an LDS song that says: Grandma-ma, what are these things? Proof you lived for one short space. Faded photos bent, but ageless; lovely tattered lace. I will be as you someday. Lift the pen. What does it tell? Words on paper saying softly, 'Love life. Live it well.'

That's another of my favorite lines: Love life. Live it well.

I hope my mother can say she lived her life well, no matter which side of the coin lands face up. I hope the new little one I met today will live well. I pray such for my eight living children. So I pray may we all.

Comments

  1. UnknownFebruary 24, 2009 at 5:39 PM

    :( I really hope your mother pulls through. I will pray for her too, and you've given me a lot to think about! Girl, why can't I ever read one of your blog posts without bawling??? You know you have that effect on me;) Love ya!

    ReplyDelete
  2. JenFebruary 25, 2009 at 1:27 PM

    Hugs! Keeping you all in my prayers!!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Life Cycles

Like the cycles of freedom and bondage experienced ages before Polybius wrote his theories of benign and malignant governments, we continue to cycle today, even thousands of years later. Generations, societies, governments and the governed cycle. Even the earth cycles as it spins through day and night, revolving through seasons and years over millennia and eons of time. Cycles are a theme of living things; growth and decline. We struggle for growth and cycle through periods of accomplishment and strength then ease and weakness. Time spent at ease leads to weakness; a very natural part of the living cycle. This is true for the body, both physical and metaphysical. Among my close friends, I would say this is true for both the body and the spirit. The phenomenon manifests in societies of all sizes, from that of the United States to those the size of the average American family. Around and around we go from weak to strong to weak; from poor to rich to poor. Generation after generation; hum...
Read more

Handprint on My Heart

A treasured friend told me today that I’ve left my handprint upon her heart (she quoted a line from a song she heard on the way to SWEAT with me, and said it spoke to her of me). Of course, I felt a welling of emotion. She’s left her handprint upon mine, too. That’s what we do in this life, isn’t it (if we do it right)? We leave our marks upon each other, upon the rising generation, upon the land, upon whatever it may be that will remember us when we’re gone… As I write, I’m sitting in the room with my mother-in-law, as her breathing grows increasingly shallow by the hour and her feeble heart grows tired of beating. Her body is aged and failing. She’s lived a long and wonderful life. Not only did she bring six boys and a daughter into this world, but she raised them in the hills, on a farm, in a little two-room cabin, with no modern utilities. She raised happy children and happy grandchildren who were, and ever will be honored to call her mother. She did it right. This fine lady has le...
Read more

...and the truth shall make you free...

I used to contribute to my little hometown paper. After a new editor and I failed to see eye to eye on a small handful of issues, we decided I don’t contribute to the paper anymore. That’s OK. We all have boundaries. In the process of the break up, I came to appreciate the power of the press more than I had before. Both my parents had worked in the newspaper industry (my mom as a typesetter/printer and my dad as a linotype operator, before the days of computerization), and I figured I had a healthy respect for the creation, description and dissemination of the facts. When news was not news, but opinion, it was clearly labeled just that: opinion. Before recently, I hadn’t considered the ‘responsibility’ of the editor to tell readers what they’re reading before they read it, via the headline (nor the possibility that editors or publishers in small-town America might be in the business of propaganda). A headline not only summarize a piece, but can easily influence the opinions of readers...
Read more