holding your mother's hand

Those who read my blog know how much I love my adopted state; that Georgia suits me.Moonlight through the pines, the history and warm people have made our forty years here contented ones.We fit here.But then there is July and it's torrid cousin August."Run inside" heat that makes one weary and languid.So, last week we rented a small cabin in the Catskills, those mountains of memory in New York.Across from the cabin is the West Kill, a sweet stream that changes with the seasons but is always beautiful to me.

Each morning, I got up at 7 A. M. and with coffee, rosary and my journal,  I crossed the country road.Sitting on a knoll above the brook, I wasted time.The water was flint colored and musical as I settled into solitude .A green plant the size of a tumbleweed was to my left and honey bees hung from each small white flower in their constant searching.A blue and grey Belted Kingfisher flew on a straight line over the water and then crashed into the brook in a violent dive.I turned to my right and about 60 yards upstream, a bear cub meandered across the stream.So much life.

The rosary was the starting point.Each mystery, each prayer was a step toward the interior still point.It felt like holding your Mother's hand on a bright spring morning.Her warm hand stayed in yours without thought of chores or things to do.All there, all for you, until you are ready to let go.Perfect presence.Eternal sun.

As a child, I can remember putting my head in my mother's lap and knowing, without words, that she wished I would move away.She loved me but was uncomfortable.I feel the beads in my hand as I go around the circle  and I settle into a calm place.

Recently, a friend was dying and my husband and I visited her.I wanted to take her something that she could hold as a machine nearby filled her lungs with air.I wanted to bring her Christ.So, I slipped a rosary in my pocket.Silver links held red clear beads with small medals of Pope John 11.My dear Liz couldn't talk because of the tubes but a tear and a small smile told me she knew we were with her.She held the rosary as we talked to her and, when we left, she clutched it still.Her grandson is my godchild and, after she passed, they were going to bury the rosary with her but Wayne said no, he wanted it because it was from his godmother.It hangs on his bedroom wall and I cannot tell you how that touches me.She is with him whether he knows it or not.She is holding his hand;I can see it.

Mary, Queen of the angels, pray for us.