Wednesday, Day Four: Tomb
My mother and I sit beside each other in a dark room, breathing, listening to the quiet. I wait for her to turn on the flashlight I know she has in her hand, to flash its light around the room. When she does, I name what I see: lambie, the stuffed lamb with the velvet face; the edge of the lace curtains, the windowsill, a nail in the wall, my tattered blankie, a can of playdough. As soon as I have named something, the light goes off, and we return to darkness, to waiting.
Later she spins the the light on the ceiling so fast that I see jagged streaks like the lightening that illuminates the sky on stormy nights. Later still, we play flashlight-hide-and-seek, wedging our bodies close to the wall or behind the door of a closet, waiting for the other to find us with the light.
At the end of the game, she flicks on the overhead light, and I have to close my eyes to shut out the brightness. I see shadows swimming beneath my lids, and I wait until they go away before I open my eyes again.
My mother got sick when I was eight and battled cancer on and off for five years before finally dying when I was 13. While she was sick, I spent a lot of time lying on the floor next to her bed, which was set up in what had been the playroom, asking her questions.
One night, suddenly, I remembered these flashlight games, and I asked her if they had really happened, or if I was making up the memory.
“You’re not making it up,” she said.
“Why in the world did we play together in a dark room with a flashlight?” I asked her.
“I didn’t want you to be afraid of the dark,” she said.
I felt her words settle heavily into my chest. I touched my cheek and realized I was crying. I had never started crying before without realizing it. I lay quietly, hoping she wouldn’t notice. If she did, she didn’t say anything.
Even then, at 12 or 13, I understood the gift the she had given me. I understood that I was going to be plagued by fear throughout my life—fear of illness, of losing those I loved, of my own death, and fears I couldn’t even imagine then.
Whenever I am most afraid, even now, I remember the flashlight’s power to illuminate the things that were most comforting to me—lambie, blankie, my mother’s body wedged behind a door. I remember how I got used to the darkness, comfortable there, and how the bright, overhead light that had been normal hurt my eyes in the end.
The women who went to Jesus’ tomb the day after his burial must have gone to find some comfort. Caring for Jesus’ dead, broken body was all they could do. The world was a dangerous place. The people in power had killed the greatest advocate for justice the world had ever known.
To find the stone rolled away—to find the tomb empty—might have been an even greater comfort, if they had understood. But, of course, they did not. I can only imagine the terror they must have felt. It’s no wonder practically every angel that shows up in the Bible starts out by saying, “Do not be afraid.”
They had planned to go into to a dark, quiet place, to anoint the teacher they loved. What now?
It is impossible, of course, to be fearless. My favorite quote of all time, by poet and social justice advocate Audre Lorde, reads “When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid." It is possible, as Lorde wrote, to stay true to our vision, to feel our strength even in the midst of our fear. We can in this way take back the power of the oppressor.
We walk step by step into the tomb, into deeper darkness, into the knowledge that Justice can be mocked and tortured, that Truth can be killed. We walk knowing that somewhere, somehow, there will again be light. When we see the light, we are startled--even, at times, afraid of its brightness. But we walk on, into that light, whether or not we are afraid.
Making a donation to Petalouda House:
We would appreciate a donation to Petlaouda House if you are reading along with these Easter reflections. But, we want to make this clear up front: your donation is not yet tax deductable. We are not sure yet whether our project will become a non-profit or continue to be a labor of love as it is now. We have ongoing needs--basic needs like clothing, food, work uniforms, lessons, etc. for those who live or will live with us--but we also have some larger goals. Our next goal is to make improvements to the property that will ensure that the foundation is sound (this will involve hauling a lot of dirt this summer!). Also, we hope to make one of our entrances disability accessible. The much more long-term goal is to finish an apartment over the garage so we can provide housing for a family or transitional and more independent housing to adults who live or will live with us. Finally, we currently only have one very old working vehicle. We will need a second, newer vehicle soon.
You can make a donation by sending a check made out to Argie Manolis or Tara Gromatka to 411 E. 4th St., Morris, MN 56267, with Petalouda House in the memo line, or transferring money via PayPal to argiemanolis@gmail.com.
Christ is Risen! Happy Easter!
Later she spins the the light on the ceiling so fast that I see jagged streaks like the lightening that illuminates the sky on stormy nights. Later still, we play flashlight-hide-and-seek, wedging our bodies close to the wall or behind the door of a closet, waiting for the other to find us with the light.
At the end of the game, she flicks on the overhead light, and I have to close my eyes to shut out the brightness. I see shadows swimming beneath my lids, and I wait until they go away before I open my eyes again.
My mother got sick when I was eight and battled cancer on and off for five years before finally dying when I was 13. While she was sick, I spent a lot of time lying on the floor next to her bed, which was set up in what had been the playroom, asking her questions.
One night, suddenly, I remembered these flashlight games, and I asked her if they had really happened, or if I was making up the memory.
“You’re not making it up,” she said.
“Why in the world did we play together in a dark room with a flashlight?” I asked her.
“I didn’t want you to be afraid of the dark,” she said.
I felt her words settle heavily into my chest. I touched my cheek and realized I was crying. I had never started crying before without realizing it. I lay quietly, hoping she wouldn’t notice. If she did, she didn’t say anything.
Even then, at 12 or 13, I understood the gift the she had given me. I understood that I was going to be plagued by fear throughout my life—fear of illness, of losing those I loved, of my own death, and fears I couldn’t even imagine then.
Whenever I am most afraid, even now, I remember the flashlight’s power to illuminate the things that were most comforting to me—lambie, blankie, my mother’s body wedged behind a door. I remember how I got used to the darkness, comfortable there, and how the bright, overhead light that had been normal hurt my eyes in the end.
The women who went to Jesus’ tomb the day after his burial must have gone to find some comfort. Caring for Jesus’ dead, broken body was all they could do. The world was a dangerous place. The people in power had killed the greatest advocate for justice the world had ever known.
To find the stone rolled away—to find the tomb empty—might have been an even greater comfort, if they had understood. But, of course, they did not. I can only imagine the terror they must have felt. It’s no wonder practically every angel that shows up in the Bible starts out by saying, “Do not be afraid.”
They had planned to go into to a dark, quiet place, to anoint the teacher they loved. What now?
It is impossible, of course, to be fearless. My favorite quote of all time, by poet and social justice advocate Audre Lorde, reads “When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid." It is possible, as Lorde wrote, to stay true to our vision, to feel our strength even in the midst of our fear. We can in this way take back the power of the oppressor.
We walk step by step into the tomb, into deeper darkness, into the knowledge that Justice can be mocked and tortured, that Truth can be killed. We walk knowing that somewhere, somehow, there will again be light. When we see the light, we are startled--even, at times, afraid of its brightness. But we walk on, into that light, whether or not we are afraid.
Making a donation to Petalouda House:
We would appreciate a donation to Petlaouda House if you are reading along with these Easter reflections. But, we want to make this clear up front: your donation is not yet tax deductable. We are not sure yet whether our project will become a non-profit or continue to be a labor of love as it is now. We have ongoing needs--basic needs like clothing, food, work uniforms, lessons, etc. for those who live or will live with us--but we also have some larger goals. Our next goal is to make improvements to the property that will ensure that the foundation is sound (this will involve hauling a lot of dirt this summer!). Also, we hope to make one of our entrances disability accessible. The much more long-term goal is to finish an apartment over the garage so we can provide housing for a family or transitional and more independent housing to adults who live or will live with us. Finally, we currently only have one very old working vehicle. We will need a second, newer vehicle soon.
You can make a donation by sending a check made out to Argie Manolis or Tara Gromatka to 411 E. 4th St., Morris, MN 56267, with Petalouda House in the memo line, or transferring money via PayPal to argiemanolis@gmail.com.
Christ is Risen! Happy Easter!
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