On Showing Compassion

About twenty-two years ago, between our first two daughters, Julie had a miscarriage. In the weeks to follow, many couples shared with us that they, too, had gone through this experience, but until we faced the trial ourselves, we did not know that so many around us had gone through it. These days at death's door with Mom remind me of that time. So many people who have walked a similar path have helped us know what to expect, and more importantly, let us know that they are praying for us. Your support has been encouraging.

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The height of the human condition is not knowing passion but showing compassion. It is not about self but others.

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Julie made it back to the east side of the state Tuesday afternoon and she and I spent the night with Mom in the hospital last night. Her vitals are far below what is normally required to sustain life.

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I'm so glad I made it back from Thailand in time to look in Mom's eyes and "visit" for those two days before this time of sharing duties and grief with family has been a blessing, but if nothing happens soon, we may simply have to return to home and our duties at school until the days of the funeral.

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As we sat in that small darkened room last night, it occurred to me that this is that first week in February when I typically spend a weekend with Mom while Bob is traveling with Wertz Warriors. It was this week two years ago that I wrote the following little booklet which was originally posted April 1, 2006. I thought it might be of interest to some readers at this time—especially since the last chapter tells of a remarkable friendship that showed itself in kindness the day before my parents wedding.

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My mom had a "cake crisis" the day before their wedding, and she turned to her old friend Bob for help. Nearly fifty years later, that friendship was renewed at the PHHS Class of ’48's 50th Reunion. Mom and Bob married in 2001. It is the same compassion shown in the last part of this story that I see each day at mother’s bedside.

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Visiting Home: Preface to The Wedding Book

[1st in a series of 4, originally posted April 2006]

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My mother’s living room
still knows the meaning of its name,
but it’s a quiet sort of living to be sure.
Gone are the days of horsy-back rides,
our daughters’ song and dance upon the hearth,
and wrapping paper strewn on Christmas morn.
That sort of living in the room
has faded like the snapshot
left too long upon the kitchen windowsill.

But rising early and alone with a pad and pen,
I’m drawn to the davenport
(as Mother always called a couch)
and in the hush of daybreak's light
I see that life without us
finds a way to gather undisturbed
in corners where the carpet is not worn—
and countless numbers scrawled on torn
scraps and backs of envelopes in the nook
and scribbling in the margin of a book
left waiting on the corner chair,
and photo albums in the shadow of the stair.

The piano is now a desk of sorts, a place
to stack the hymnals and press like grapes
vintage sheet music in its overstuffed bench
that drops the unsung pages to the floor.
The room is long-since silent of their songs,
but the echo brings a smile
to me and framed familiar faces
forever looking on from every wall—
loved ones gone, and younger versions of us all,
and elementary pictures of children

(now grown and out of school)
still looking on and listening
from a dozen years before.

There is no clock to mark the time…
not even a metronome,
but the living room has heaps of living *
that make it feel like home.
© Copyright 2006, TK, Patterns of Ink

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*One of Mom’s favorite Guest poems begins “It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home...” Those who have read "Bringing Home the Duncan Phyfe" will understand why it's Mom's favorite. This preface was written from recollections of Mom’s living room over the past decade more than its appearance that morning in February. It provides the setting for the three chapters of "The Wedding Book" which follow.

This story-poem continues at these links: Part II, Part III, Part IV.