I have written several times about random clippings I found in the old boxes my Grandma Smith had when we were cleaning out. I guess it was the writer in me that could not quite part with her old, scribbled notes and recipes, or her random clippings from newspapers now brownish orange. Some of these clippings were even my columns, and I never could quite figure out why those particular columns resonated with her. But nevertheless, it has been a relaxing way to spend my time on a rainy afternoon when I am working in my office.
And that is just what happened this past week when I was rummaging through things on my desk to get organized before I delve into a future writing project. I found a two-piece clipping that was so moving I had to take a picture of it and send it to a sweet friend who lost a son in the past years. The lady's column is titled Beyond the Ironing Board. A reader had asked the writer to write some words to help console her over the loss of a child. These were her words:
"Now I hardly know what to write. If I knew words which could be caressing and tender to reach into your heart like fingertips and massage away the pain which must be a million times worse than muscle cramps, I would write them. If I knew words which could keep your breath from backing up into your throat when you have to pick up a plate because you forgot and set the table for everyone, I would write them. “
“But if I knew all these words, and I wrote them, and they did what I said they would do, I would have robbed you, for I would have taken away your memories of him. Next to live music, a record is the best thing; next to the live person, memories are the best thing. Without the music there could have been no record; without the person there would be no memories. Like music with joyful strains suddenly replaced by haunting melodies, and like music with haunting melodies suddenly replaced by joyful strains, your relationship goes on every day.”
“If James dies before I do, probably the most difficult time of day for me will be the time when I go to the post office and there is no letter from him. He has written to me almost daily when away. But I will, for a while, I'm sure, go home and read some of the letters from him that I have saved and remember gratefully the love that prompted those letters. “
“On this Christmas Day every ache will be deeper, and every pain will be sharper. It would seem totally proper to me that you weep a little while, but not all day. As you weep, it would seem totally proper, also, to let the joyful strain of faith in Christ well up in your heart and wipe your tears away with poignant happy memories. Bring out a few of the not-so-happy memories, too, for it is unrealistic to remember someone as having been perfect.”
“And when your heart has settled and you feel a miracle has been worked there, breathe a prayer of thanks to God for it is a miracle, indeed this Christ in Christmas, whose Peace on Earth includes your heart, even at this time with one missing."
I feel certain my grandmother clipped this out after losing my grandfather. Other than parents and siblings that was the only great loss I recall. I believe on the day she originally came across it, it touched her enough to tuck it away, not knowing it would go on decades later to be sent on to continue to bring peace. I can't be certain, but I do believe words speak for decades. In fact, some of our most cherished for well over 2,000 years.
