Longfellow

...and the unbroken song

In the garden - December 23rd, 2018 | Canon Photography

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
    And wild and sweet
    The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
    Had rolled along
    The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
    A voice, a chime,
    A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

- Christmas Bells
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - 1807 –1882

“Nana, nana, (so sweetly through the cheers and toasts), do you know who wrote that? His name is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and he wrote this because he lost his wife and he was very sad. He wrote poetry.” (nodding, big sweet smile)

“Ahhh, yes, that was so beautiful. Thank you.”

On Friday, December 25, 1863, Longfellow—as a 57-year-old widowed father of six children, the oldest of which had been nearly paralyzed as his country fought a war against itself—wrote a poem seeking to capture the dissonance in his own heart and the world he observes around him that Christmas Day - The Gospel Coalition

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There is a dissonance. I want to help it. The head reflects for the heart. It’s not a bad thing, a stuck thing, or a therapy thing. It’s not a problem or a matter of breathing slowly. The years of my heart holding my head up, telling me to smile and make eye contact. Quiet losses reflected on every single type of holiday celebrated alone. Isolated shame wrapped up in the same beliefs I’ve held most of my life.

I grew stronger, less dependent on what special days should look like. I picked up another art. One that I don’t know much about technically. I just know writing has been a lifeline to healing.

Four years later. It’s Christmas and I have wondered over and over why I feel so very tired. Nothing has felt normal. Normal is in the past. There is a new normal.

My beautiful mom, staring through blurring eyes at her family. The family that gathered in her honor this Christmas.

Glory to God. You are writing our story. Every single one of us on earth. You are the Light in the darkness, the one guiding each word. Oh come let us adore Him. Adore Him in everything. See the entire picture of imperfection and beauty. Feel the quiet. His presence within our struggles and joys. And in the fast paced chaos of life, is it all we want? or need? or is it just another sentence not written. Let go.

You have brought the small child, barely three, back to me. The theater is empty again. In the last two years we have sat in this theater a few times. Yet none in such slow motion as this. We sit at the table. Together. Just You and me God. The noise has been turned down. The glittery garland is hanging above on the old golden chandelier, a treasure of the former homeowner. I see the way I walked through this home, listening to stories of special gatherings inside of these block walls. I had hoped for them too.

The beauty of the three year old child begins to speak. Photographs stopped in time sit on my shelves. Lights are twinkling on the tree. I see Christmas in America when I was three. Alone with no family. I missed my nana and granddad. A bounty of food has been served. Some are missing due to sickness. It’s time for grace.

The child, now seven and a half, reminding us that He is with us at the table. He will deliver to me my heart for all that is lovely in this world. The art of it all. The compassion, empathy and grace intertwined, braided together into a story that will cross over to mine….long after I am gone.

For now my writing is “mostly” unknown to my family, much like my photography was just something I did. Not really a discussion. This can be painful at times, but I have grown to understand that these are the things of my soul. I create for Him who gave them to me. I give them back. That is all that matters.

I am writing for a time that is His to share with my family.

He sits next to us in our joys. And in our remembered dissonance. In the love we have never ceased to carry but have learned to guard.

In the heart of Longfellow. The aching love for the wife he could not save. The love of a son, battered in a “civil” war.

My firstborn grandchild, removed as the world was removed from each other, has come back to tell me she hears the bells on Christmas Day.

The impassable unbroken song.