There's something about this song that gets to me. My sister Caroline and I tease each other once in a while by way of this particular tune ... because it makes us cry ... every time ... without fail, even if we are laughing in the same breath.
It is only about two minutes in its entirety. These two minutes feel like an eternity to me. Maybe it is more accurate to say that these two minutes acknowledge the depth and richness and tragedy and beauty and fullness and mystery and tenderness and pain and doubt and fear and honesty and surrender and peace and hope that could only fit into an eternity and have somehow managed to flood my soul today.
Caroline, Andrea, and I first heard this song on a movie we all have a love/hate relationship with: The Little Women. I think my sisters and I are moved by the story and journey of the sisters. I think we also are hesitant with the movie because it does capture themes - of both joy and sorrow - that almost feel too rich and powerful to hold. I think my sisters and I may be particularly tuned in to this movie because it echoes, albeit faintly, our love for and experience of each other. I think the first few times I watched the movie I was offended by how much my little heart-soul began to pound in my chest - when when Jo and Meg have to wear scraps to a ball, when Jo refuses Laurie, when Jo cuts her hair, when Papa comes home, when Beth cries with the impoverished family she takes food to, when Laurie refuses Jo, when Jo chases after the professor in the rain.
This particular song and the scene it dictates have tended to hollow me out more than the others. It's the part when, without words, the silent story teller lets the audience know that sweet Beth is no longer with her sisters. The nanny is walking around a freshly made bed that the viewer knows is Beth's, and she is tearing roses - more vigorously than the softness of the song would predict - and she is spreading the chunky petals over the place that Beth let out her last exhale. I remember seeing the movie for the first time and feeling overwhelmed, but too afraid to break the silence. I remember the lump in my throat that seemed to slowly inflate as Beth's absence became more real.
This morning I got a phone call that I can't say I wasn't anticipating. However anticipation is not synonymous with preparedness ... or acceptance ... or even peace. My sweet, beautiful, strong, tenacious, intelligent, faithful, nurturing, wise, faithful Aunt Paula walked down a heavenly aisle to meet her Jesus. My Aunt Paula celebrated her 40th wedding anniversary with her earthly bridegroom, the man I know as my Uncle Gene, just as we got the news that she was preparing to meet THE bridegroom, the one she has put her faith in consistently through all the losses and riches she has experienced. I believe on a theological/intellectual level that marriage is intended to be a symbol of Jesus's love for and covenant to the Church. I am struck by the timeline of the final days of my Aunt Paula's time with us on earth - it is as if God spoke to the family through time, a construct he is too big to fit into, to whisper that a place has been prepared for Aunt Paula ... that she is the most beautiful bride, and he is ready to be next to her proclaiming his covenant to her... that he can't wait one more second to be hers and for her to be his. Yes ... I feel the deep agonizing ache of her absence. I feel an even deeper, though maybe fainter, hope that is rooted in a sense that maybe, just maybe, Aunt Paula's life this side of heaven was preparation work to get her ready for her big day when she got to walk down the most perfect aisle to meet her most perfect Lord.
This Thomas Newman song is one that rarely ceases to penetrate to the deepest of the deep places in my heart, even when I've spent lots of time and energy trying to seal up any vulnerability. There's a reason I chose to play it this evening as I continue to engage in the process of grieving the earthly loss of my Aunt Paula as well as celebrate her entrance into the most miraculous eternity. And there's something different about listening to it this time, as if I have an extra ear that can assimilate a whole new bellowing voice of the tune. Maybe the aching I feel in my gut is actually my soul expanding ... and listening to the song on an empty soul-gut is that much more satisfying because I'm hungry for everything the song is trying to tell me - that my Aunt Paula is the most beautiful bride, and that all that I hope and trust is true and real about God and Jesus and the Gospel and mercy and love and freedom and joy and hope is real. Realer than what we all think is real on earth. Maybe there is something that is actually truer than the truest earthly touch of someone's hand. Maybe there is something that is truer than the truest experience of earthly love. Maybe God really did send Jesus to earth, while we were yet sinners - i.e. giving God the finger - to woo us, to bring us home to him, to be his bride, so that we could be free of all the chains and aches and sorrows, so that we could know the experience of being fully known and fully loved ... for eternity. So that we could experience safety and freedom and hope and joy and peace even in the midst or aftermath of the most overwhelming and overpowering waves of grief and pain.
Andrea, Caroline, Dusty - I love you. I'm so thankful for my sisters and brother ... my journey-mates.
Dad - I love you. Thank you for living this. Until I have an earthly groom of my own, you're my primary reminder that God pursues me on a level that can't always be felt or sensed. What a gift.
Grandma Sally - I love you. You are a warrior. What an honor to pray with you. What a deeper honor to watch the quiet way you continue to choose to trust God ruthlessly ... beyond anything I've seen.
Mom, Chip - I love you. I'm with you. I don't have words, only belief that you are your beloved's, and he is yours. I'm eager to be next to you, in hopes that my physical presence can somehow say what I cannot.
Ben, Charlie, Trischa, Amy, Jake - I can't help but wish there was a way for me to take some of the burden from each of you. Maybe I can by grieving/celebrating with you. Or maybe it is more than enough to tell you and show you that I love you.
Gene - I love you. Your understated-ness seems quite the contrary to the fierceness with which you love your earthly bride and your children. I am in awe of the miracle you seem to radiate - the miracle of a love that can only come from your rootedness in your identity as God's very own.
Paula - I'm a feeler, and I feel your absence already. I think I might always feel the burden of that. And yet ... I'm positive that I'll always feel deeply and humbly and passionately grateful for your reminder to me that this is not the end ... that this time on earth is brief compared to what we are preparing for. I have been playing hard-to-get with God as of late. I've been making myself unavailable to him - at times blaming it on his intolerance of my faults - when really I think I've just been afraid. I think I've been afraid to enter into that secret garden of vulnerability with him, where I must stand before God without trying to hide, where I must trust that he has already seen my worst and has chosen me for all that he has created me to be, where the truest and safest and richest and most inspiring intimacy exists. Do I want to be a bride in the earthly sense? Of course. But that is all just a glimpse...just a taste of what God is inviting me to. You teach me that. Oh, and you are the most beautiful bride I've seen.
Lord - yes.
