Sarah L. Frantz's Blog, page 15

a christian carol

At this time of year, advent reflections light the hopeful way to Christmastide and like Charles Dicken’s trinity of ghosts in A Christmas Carol, advent visits us with memory past of His glorious entry into hostile and foreign territory- hope birther. The present now- darkness shatterer. And promise future- curse breaker.

Hope Birther— field shepherds overwhelmed by angelic heraldry announcing His birth. The suckling babe, the Lamb of God, to clothe us with His rightness. Come see…

Adoration of the Shepherds by Gerard van Honthorst. MECKLENBURG-VORPOMMERN/PUBLIC DOMAIN

Darkness Shatterer— confession drawn from repentant hearts seeking solace in His embrace. The seal of His Holy Spirit. Come enter…

The Repentant Magdalene is a c.1635-1640 oil on canvas painting by Georges de La Tour

Curse breaker— exultant return delivering us from this pain-filled fallen world. Maranatha, Come Lord Jesus…

Gustave Doré, “The Triumph Of Christianity Over Paganism,” 1868 (photo: Public Domain)

Expectantly we wait. 

the waning

      It’s another November without her. I remember the low thrum of bagpipe. I turned in the wooden pew peering toward the back of the church as the piper’s mournful tune emerged. Her kilt swung solemnly as she walked up the carpeted aisle. Tears flowed, sniffles all around me, I wiped my nose too. The flower arrangement my sister thoughtfully designed around our great aunt’s favorite colors lay before the lectern. She would have approved.

       Today would have been her one hundred second birthday, but instead she is being laid to rest. She, the matriarch of our family on my dad’s side. I’d bought her a solar bobble head Queen Elizabeth on a trip to London in 2017. She’d loved it of course.

       As I look at family photos, especially Thanksgiving pictures, her face beams— usually next to Jane, or between my sister and I. First, the oldest sibling had died. Then a sister, followed by another (my grandmother), then her brother. I asked her once if she felt old. “No,” she’d said. Though she was 100. 

       One of the last time’s I saw her she told me the story behind a farmyard scene that hung above her floral couch. She’d pointed to the girl opening the screen door.       

       “That’s me,” she’d laughed, “going in to wash the dishes. And that’s Diz.”

       The other figure a girl reading lazily on a swing. I unnecessarily defended my grandmother’s work ethic. I remembered an often-quoted directive I’d been given countless times, “Dinner isn’t over until the dishes are through.” How many times had I said those very words to my children?

       Another time, she told me the story of the composer Dvorak coming to Spillville, Iowa. And how townsfolk saw him walking in the woods, writing notes of music on his paper cuffs as much needed inspiration flowed from the wind, trees, and brooks. The Catholic community had welcomed and enshrined him accordingly, along with the Bily Brothers, poppyseed kolaches, and all things Bohemian. Not Czechoslovakia when her family immigrated, but Bohemia! It was important I know.

       An old tape recording captured the ghost of her mother’s voice as she sang a simple song in their native tongue. Her daughters’ soft laughter in the background. The family farm where she’d been raised, milked cows, made lye soap, and yes, washed dishes rests under Lake Arcadia, Oklahoma.

       The last time I saw her, her frail form stood in the door of her apartment. She’d smiled in spite of the pain and said softly, “I’ll see you in the waning.” She passed a week later.

       Yes, I‘ll see you in the waning.

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To Lois, With Love

(on your wedding anniversary)

Heaven Some Day, Heaven Soon

In the darkness of this day, your smile made life better,

A gentle touch upon an arm, a nudge you were here.

Heaven here, heaven now

Heaven some day, heaven soon

A smile so warm it lit the room, keeping the shadows at bay,

A servant’s heart for your family, a picture of Christ so near.

Heaven here, heaven now

Heaven some day, heaven soon

A void now feels the space that you once did occupy,

A void no one else can fill, only you sweet dear.

Heaven here, heaven now,

Heaven some day, heaven soon

But some day soon and not so far away,

we’ll see you once again,

He’ll draw us in, hug us close, and wipe away the tears.

Heaven here, heaven now,

Heaven some day, heaven soon.

~For my mother-in-love, Lois Frantz May 16, 2016 with love

teddy bears picnic

Today was a Muzzie day. I drove to Edmond this morning while the sun was still shining. “A single dip hot fudge sundae, please? No nuts, no cherry,” I order at Braums. Just the way she likes them now.
I pull into the small park and trek across the street past the full lot as I don my mask. They beep me in and record my temperature before I’m allowed entry.
Do I know where her room is? I nod.
She is slumped in her bed this morning, half in, half out, her nurse aid mid-process helping her to dress. My timing, as usual, turns out to be impeccable. No, I’ll stay. I add assistance where I can.
Once she’s settled I ask if she’d like her sundae, she nods. Unsure of what to do or how to move. This is part of the weakness of aging. She’s 96.
One of her daughters had come yesterday for the Thanksgiving meal hosted by the home, her nurse tells me. I say I was sorry to miss it, but I’ve come today with ice cream. She smiles and leaves the room.
After the treat, Muzzie dozes in and out, smiling each time she awakens and sees my face, masked though it is.
I reach into her book basket and find the card I’d bought for her in Wyoming. It’s one of those textured numbers that looks 3D as you shift it. This one is a forest of aspens.
Next time she wakes I remind her of a song she used to sing to us, The Teddy Bear’s Picnic. I tell her the card had reminded me and that is why I sent it. She smiles unsure. I start to sing it and a glimmer of recognition beams out. Her small Bitty Bear was in the same basket, I set him before the propped card, for context. I tell her she is always in my heart. Always. And she is.

Criss Cross, Christ’s Cross

I wept as I listened to James Blunt’s song, Monsters, about his ailing father. He sings about the universal exchange of place that occurs as a parent’s health fails.

Criss crossed.

Brushing bangs gently away from eyes with a caress as tender as the one once used on newborn infant. Applying Chapstick to parched lips before promising to return to the hospital one more time. Always one more time. 

       A friend of mine once told me that the loss of her grandparents, and then her parents, had felt like the layers of an onion slowly being peeled away. This unmerciful undressing of the soul in its exposure to the elements of time. I hadn’t experienced yet what she was saying but I recognized the truth of it.

       And as I continue to listen to his lyrics, I am drawn to its simple confession of knowing another even as I am known. A mercy is exposed that always draws me to itself. A humility of love that seeks to bring relief not accusation. A gentle reminder that we all have feet of dust.

       I keep listening only disagreeing with one point, I don’t know that it will be me turning out the light. Maybe my life will be one handspan, maybe two, or it may be required tomorrow.

       I’ve seen friends walk through the harrowing loss of a child. Another criss cross. And even though as Christians we believe that Christ has upended death the finality of feeling, no, knowing, that this simply is not right is delineated by the grief of such deep pain. 

      And a whisper reminds me that death was never supposed to be part of the natural order. That the orderly death of preceding generations passing before the younger and which is generally accepted was never meant to be. In the pre-apple days there was no death. No wonder we label it myth. No wonder.      

       The Father enters in to rescue, as Son, and brings death to death. Criss cross, Christ’s cross. I try to imagine it. A world without grief and pain. Banished of all monsters, Mr. Blunt. This is what Jesus has promised, He wills to leave the light on.

John 10:9-10

9 I am the door. If anyone enters by Me, he will be saved, and will go in and out and find pasture. 10 The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.