I wish the title was mine, but we all know it's not. It's borrowed from a hymn written by Eleanor Farjeon nearly 100 years ago and made famous by Cat Stevens. The lyrics are copyrighted, so I can't use them here, but thanks to the miracle of the internet, I read them this morning. There are things that are just as splendid the 100th time you see or hear them as they were the first, aren't there?
When I saw daybreak this morning--bad picture here at the side--I thought, as I have all week, of Gordon Lightfoot. He passed away Monday at the age of 84 and the words of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" haven't stopped playing in my mind since.
The church whose bell chimed 29 times the morning of the wreck rang its bell one morning this week, too, only it rang 30 times instead. Someone played "Amazing Grace" on the bagpipes. Morning broke on grief and gratitude. I guess it always does.
What is with you, Liz, that you must continually write about loss?
Yes, those italics are quoting the voice in my head. But it's not loss I'm talking about. It's the gifts we are given on the way. The gratitude inspired by those gifts.
I love churches, old ones especially. While I haven't attended that many of them, I visit them as often as I can when traveling. I worship when I'm inside them--worship being personal. Sometimes I just mumble
thank you on the way out. When Duane was in Vietnam, I'd go into St. Charles--which was unlocked in those days--and light candles to plead for his safety.
Something I've learned about churches--whether you go there for years or whether you just visit--is that even when you leave them, you don't love them any less. The gifts you receive within those walls stay with you forever. They give you things to pass on to others. No, not judgment, but tolerance and love for others and sharing.
I'm feeling melancholy today, because of losses and changes and how quickly daybreaks, rainbows, and sunsets pass. But then I remember there will be more. Morning will break again, rainbows will light the sky and Bart See's barn again, and the sun will set with a light show that brings people to stunned stillness.
You learn many lessons with age, and you don't learn a lot, too. You give advice when it's not wanted, share your opinion when it wasn't asked for, and you sing along with songs that are interwoven throughout your memory even when people wish you wouldn't. Grief and gratitude share equal space in that memory.
I am blessed. I hope you are, too. Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.
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Beautiful thoughts Liz. Thank you!
ReplyDeleteThank you for coming--I so appreciate it.
DeleteEven loss brings gifts.
ReplyDeleteIt does, and that's one of the joys of aging--that we can recognize them.
DeleteBeautiful, Liz, and so very true. We leaves footprints in places, but they leave their own marks on our souls, too. Thank you for such a lovely reading to start my day.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Janie. It's true--we should never expect our footprints without getting marks in turn.
DeleteSuch lovely thoughts to begin the day with. Thanks Liz
ReplyDeleteOh, thank you!
DeleteThanks, Jennifer.
ReplyDeleteI find that loss sparks memories
ReplyDeleteSure does.
DeleteBeautiful melancholy. Thanks Liz.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Jana.
DeleteI was so sad to hear about Gordon Lightfoot's passing too. My dad, who is also no longer with us, loved Gordon Lightfoot, and I loved my dad, so he held a special place in my heart. When we lose the only way we can move forward is to value our memories and make more. Thanks for sharing your thoughts, Liz! Beautiful as always!
ReplyDeleteI understand that. I think I love Bing Crosby and Perry Como because of my mom. Music is certainly the great connecter, isn't it?
DeleteLove this... Lightfoot's loss is one I feel deeply...one of my first dates with Husband was going to a GL concert--it was the first time Husband held my hand!
ReplyDeleteGood memory!
DeleteThis comment has my name on it, but it's from my friend Ann Strait Larimer. She couldn't get it to post and it's far too lovely to not share, so I'm doing it for her.
ReplyDeleteHi, Liz. I have had the unique privilege to be acquainted with, not one, but two Pastors who have recently lost their wives of many years. Of course, being men of the cloth, they both stand as living testament to the joy and peace they feel, in their assurance that their loves are now in Paradise. But, while listening to them speak, both in sermons and in private conversation, I feel a deep rawness in them, like a desperate grabbing up of the pieces of something shattered, to put those pieces back together, and back on the shelf. These men have been such a blessing to me, because, in their most vulnerable time, they can only speak the unvarnished Truth. And, you are correct in saying that being able to hear that truth takes many years of seeking. It takes the ability to feel that music, unselfishly, and allow it to take you where it wants you to go.