I Come to the Garden Alone
Occasionally, I’ll share portions of Crazy: Reclaiming Life from the Shadow of Traumatic Memory that didn’t make the cut. My editor, Sarah Chauncey, taught me that authors have to learn to “kill their darlings,” which means a good piece of writing may just not belong in this spot or in that piece of work. “Save it,” she told me, “and use it some where else.” This blog post about my mother’s death was originally in the first draft of my memoir. I share it with you and hope it holds some meaning for you. ~ Lyn
I plopped down on my living room chair in my second-floor apartment that overlooked the seminary quad. Surrounded by the books that had fed me and the candles that had sustained me, I was exhausted but happy after a two-day whirlwind graduation, the culmination of three years of rigorous study. Best yet, I had just said goodbye to Chuck, Lizzy, and her husband who had celebrated this seminal moment with me. From doubter to believer, from broken to whole, from tiptoeing through the tulips to embracing the whole tree. Yaay! I was ready for God’s call. I breathed deeply, every pore of my body, not in pain, but fatigued, satisfied, and ready for a good night’s sleep.
The telephone rang.
“This is the nursing home where your mother lives. We can’t reach your brother. We’ve sent your mom to the hospital.” Ever since my father had died a year and a half earlier, I had been more a part of my mother’s life. She was suffering from dementia, and my brother, sister and I had moved her from our childhood apartment, to one assisted living facility, then to another. I occasionally visited to see how she was doing in between studying theology, writing papers, and preparing sermons for a pastoral internship.
I could barely keep my eyes open to cross to the other side of the room, but I grabbed my keys and jumped in the car, praying I would stay awake for the hour and 15-minute drive. When I got there, she was still in the emergency room, drifting in and out of consciousness. I hugged her and reminded her who I was. She was laying down and I was standing up, holding hands in the liminal space between our awareness. By some wisp of inspiration, I leaned over, and whispered in her ear in my best, but not very good, singing voice,
“I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses.” She had taught me this hymn when I was very little, tucked in between the boundaries of her love for the song and her doubt.
“And the voice I hear, falling on my ear, the Son of God discloses.” When I began to go to church again, I was charmed by the tune and the words that surprised me by their familiarity. In our faithless family, here was a gift for my journey from a most improbable giver.
“And he walks with me, and he talks with me, and he tells me I am his own.” I could see her body relax in the hearing, and her breathing become more regular.
“And the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known.” She squeezed my hand, looked straight into my eyes and mouthed the words,
“Sing it again.”
So, I did. For the next three days.
Just before they moved her to a room, my brother arrived, breathless. He enfolded her in his arms and told her that he loved her, and she whispered back that she loved him too. They were the last words she uttered. We followed the medical caravan and camped out around her bed as the rest of the family arrived, off and on, in and out, standing vigil, Bob, John, Ann, Chuck, Lizzy, and her husband, and me. Gavin was still in the southwest, Marc was unavailable, and my sister, Kathy, was up north finishing a college semester. We formed a posse around her labored breathing, transfixed by the heart monitor beeping alien noises. Quiet conversations, walks down the hospital corridors, talks with the doctors, decisions, waiting, watching.
I didn’t know what forgiveness was and, at that point, wasn’t even sure I knew what love was, but I did the only thing I knew how to do and that was to keep singing the song. One by one, the atheists in the room joined in as the hymn seemed to console us as much as it may have consoled her. They say the hearing is the last to go and I was going to make sure she was transported into her new life listening to the tune that had given her hope. On the third day, we watched as her spirit literally rose from her body, and the heart monitor stopped.
Lizzy and I hugged each other and enveloped Grandmom in a three-way embrace. Then we began to massage her still-warm skin, arms, legs, torso, while I explained that the ancient biblical characters would have done exactly the same to prepare the body for burial. The veil between life and death was drawn apart in those moments. Whatever went before us, or didn’t go before us, we were connected by the fabric of family, for better or worse.
Marc later told us that, on the evening of her death, Grandmom had come to him while he was swinging on a swing in a dream, and she told him that she was okay.
Social Hangout Wednesday
Our social hangout is this Wednesday, July 19, at 2 pm Eastern Time. Join JJ and others as we get to know each other and have fun!
2024 DW Anthology Call for Submissions!
Dissociative Writers is gearing up for our third annual Creative Healing Anthology, open to all subscribers to DW. All writing and art may be submitted, along with the Guidelines and Agreement to Publish (found at Groupeasy/Documents/Anthology 2024), between July 1 and September 16 by clicking here. Anticipated self-publication date is January 16, 2024. The digital anthology will be available for free on the Dissociative Writers website. For more information, click here.
NEWS FLASH: Prose word count limitations have exploded! We now accept submissions up to 1,000 words (old limit was 500). So get out your journal and start counting!
July Workshops
Tuesday, July 18, 1 pm Eastern: Traditional Workshop
Wednesday, July 19, 8 pm Eastern: Evening Writing-in-Place Lite
Tuesday, July 25, 1 pm Eastern: Writing-in-Place
Workshop Zoom Links
To find the Zoom link to the workshop you want to attend, go to Groupeasy / Calendar / Date & Name of Workshop. Click and you’ll be taken to the Zoom link to the workshop. We now use several Zoom links so it’s important for you to go to the Calendar to get the correct link. See you there!
🕊
I will bring my people Israel back from exile. They will rebuild the ruined cities and live in them.
They will plant vineyards and drink their wine; they will make gardens and eat their fruit.
~ Amos 9:14