When the Dust Has Settled
When the dust has settled
over the mound where we lay you
will the cavern in our hearts
likewise fill with earth?
Will the flowers grow on the grass
above our feelings of loss?
And will the breezes blow them
just a little?
Or will this hole in me, in us
become a spring, seeping through
and swirling up around our ankles
as we struggle to walk across the green
away from you?
And will this river within rage and overflow
and burst its banks flooding us through?
Or will it stay and gently water memories
that grow like treasures brushing against our feet?
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Dear Liz, Thank you for this and your previous message. I wondered how to reply to your second message, but today it occurred to me to share part of the eulogy I gave for my mother a short while ago. You will see that it concludes with her Easter poem. She was/is an Easter person. Those who die in grace go no further from us than God, And God is very near. Teilhard de Chardin I said to Rebecca (my daughter in law) the other day, ‘It is the bittersweet moments that count, the moments when I say to myself: I must tell Mum about this, and realise that she is no longer here to share those special moments.’ William Blake wrote: I give you the end of a golden string, only wind it into a ball, It will lead you in at Heaven’s gate, built in Jerusalem’s wall. Before any of us knew her, Sheila had a firm grasp of her golden string, connected to the heavenly Jerusalem even as she made a loving home in England’s green and pleasant land – or initially amid the grey, grim, bombed out East End of London. When she was still a baby after her father’s death the family pulled together; a moment of adversity became a moment of grace. This spirit of sharing inspired her as a teenager – if such a creature existed in 1943. Out to work at 14, she was a Brownie leader, and gave herself to the Young Christian Workers, meeting like-minded, thinking, committed women and men. Some would be lifelong friends, golden strings interweaving, supporting each other. One commitment blossomed. Sheila was at a desk, writing something for YCW when she looked up and saw a man she had met once or twice before. Her ‘Hello Reg’ was a moment of revelation; married at 18, and a teenage mother 15 months later, life together began in hope in London’s East End. Two golden strings entwined till death did them part. Adversity struck when Reg broke his back at the boys’ club where he worked. Many months of treatment and years of low income, but the golden strings held together. It seems as though adversity was often close by. I quote from her own words to her family: For all my children, boys and Mary, I bore you …. and bored you …. watched you grow, nursed you minus antibiotics, injections, washing machines and central heating. Nurtured you, saw you go your own individual ways. I worried and was anxious, sometimes exasperated, as those of you with families of your own will recognise, nothing changes. … A wonderful development takes place as dependence leads to independence and friendship takes the place of parenting and my greatly loved daughters-in-law have taken their places. It is something very archaic and wonderful. I have been amazed and proud of all your achievements, talents and accomplishments, and not least among all that, my wonderful grandchildren and great-grandchildren that only you can take the credit for. That golden string has woven an intricate tapestry! Sadly, Reg did not live to meet most of his grandchildren, though he was very fond of baby Ben. The last thirty-odd years of Sheila’s life were lived here in Saddleworth, with Paul, Rhiannon, Lissie and Mary and Ben at hand, Tim, Gwen, Jo and Jake not far off. And the hills to look up to. She followed her string to Art College and university, travelling into Manchester, rubbing shoulders with students younger than her own children. We rejoiced at the moment of her graduation, and the art works so generously scattered among her family – though many were sold. Art released energy in Sheila’s soul, as we all know, with her pictures looking down at us in our homes. Less well known is her writing: stories for the grandchildren, tailor-made for each one when they were old enough. She had started telling stories to her young cousin Francis when she was in her teens. There is also her poetry, and I have proudly published some of her work on the Agnellus Mirror blog. The golden string led her in unexpected ways. So we come to say goodbye. Mum asked forgiveness for misunderstandings and frustrations that may have arisen. Forgiveness gladly given, as she forgave each of us so much. As her final command for today I repeat her own words: Celebrate the love that we have for each other, from the youngest to the oldest and nurture it like the tenderest hot-house plant with great care. It is precious beyond price. God bless you and keep you all with my love. Mum, Sheila, Grandmamma, Great-Grandmamma!! ! So, next time you find yourself saying, I must tell Grandmamma, remember: Those who die in grace go no further from us than God, and God is very near. Then tell her about it. Sheila was an Easter Person, so I conclude with her Easter meditation: Did it Rain that Morning ? How did the sun rise that morning? Did it roar into the sky? Did it dance, throwing its flames across the void? Did it rain? Surely it rained? A penetrating April deluge, Short, sweet, cleansing. Penetrating like grief, Like relief. Did the wind blow? With no-one to feel it lift the dirt, the dust, Sweep clean, Prepare the way. The sun at darkness’ end. The lightning, thunder. Fit entrance to a forgiven world. Fit entrance for a Prince, a Lord. Did the birds and the creatures rejoice together? The flowers tremble, Their perfume astonish? Till all ablaze, You stepped forth Accompanied by Angels, And went your way, about your world. Until the women came, Looking, Peering, Anxious, Worried. All was calm again by then, Nothing untoward, Except that you had gone to Galilee And left a message with an Angel. Sheila Billingsley PS We have avoided the worst of the storms and enjoyed a sunny day today.
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Hello again,
Thanks so much for your response to my poem. I am thrilled it led to such reflection for you. I appreciated Sheila’s Easter reflection, she had such a lovely ways with words!Thankypu for sharing it with me. You must miss her greatly. Blessings, Liz
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It is Easter every day, even when we do not notice.
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