Art lost its basic creative drive the moment it was separated from worship. It severed an umbilical cord and now lives its own sterile life, generating and degenerating itself. In former days the artist remained unknown and his work was to the glory of God.
— Ingmar Bergman (via Dave Griffith @poorerthandead)
The fog is thick this morning. Both outside, creating a colorless, gray morning, and inside our home casting a misty veil among the rooms. One close to us has passed through the veil this past weekend.
My father-in-law left this world after several years of battle. He fought the war with Alzheimer disease, with heart issues and strokes, giving in after almost 87 years. Though not unexpected, the grief and mourning have been going on for sometime now, the moment it happens, the moment the soul leaves the body is still a shock to those left behind.
As I sip the green tea in my Puccini mug from the Met, the steam rises, warms my nose, and fogs my glasses while I consider this death. This is the first death of someone close that my children with have to deal with and I ponder this situation remembering when my own paternal grandmother died when I was ten. How did I react? What did I feel? The only thing that stands out was that we missed going to the Dodgers baseball game that evening.
I wonder how my two will feel when we talk about it this evening. What will go on in a six year old’s mind when she hears that Papa, whom she has known little of, has gone to live with God? What will a grandson, who was the true apple of his Papa’s eye, think when the news is broken to him.
All I can ask for is the grace and wisdom of God that I might have the words that these little ones (and us big ones) need to hear.
As I turn to my right I see out the study window that the fog is beginning to lift. The sun’s rays peek through the shroud to show us that hope and love is still here.
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This post is part of L.L. Barkat’s On, In, and Around Mondays (though the post doesn’t have to be posted on a Monday. You can visit her at Seedlings in Stone to read her posts as well as others participating in On, In, and Around.
What would they say if they knew
I sit for two months on six lines
of poetry?
photo by justwastintime03 @ photobucket
Lorine Niedecker from her poem The Great Snowfall Before the Bomb
morning glory courtesy of nance marie
Resolution
one resolution
at the dawning of the year
quiet listening
photo courtesy of nance marie
