LORD, what am I, that with unceasing care Thou did’st seek after me, that Thou did’st wait Wet with unhealthy dews before my gate, And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? Oh, strange delusion, that I did not greet Thy blest approach, and oh, to heaven how lost If my ingratitude’s unkindly frost Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon Thy feet.
How oft my guardian angel gently cried, “Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see How He persists to knock and wait for thee!” And oh, how often to that Voice of sorrow, “Tomorrow we will open,” I replied, And when the morrow came I answered still “Tomorrow.” -Lope Félix de Vega Carpio (1562 – 1635) Spain
Translation by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Source: Hispanic Anthology Poems Translated From The Spanish By English And North American Poets by Thomas Walsh, G.P. Putnams, 1930
Leaves glowing in the sun, zealous hum of bumblebees, From afar, from somewhere beyond the river, echoes of lingering voices And the unhurried sounds of a hammer gave joy not only to me. Before the five senses were opened, and earlier than any beginning They waited, ready, for all those who would call themselves mortals, So that they might praise, as I do, life, that is, happiness.
This morning I attended the memorial service for a dear woman whom I met on our first day in this county in which I still live. For some years our husbands were in leadership together in church, and in spite of a notable age difference we couples remained good friends for the whole 49 years leading up to now, when neither couple remains as a couple earthbound.
We used to make these friendship quilts.
Many of the people whom I saw today, I hadn’t seen in more than twenty years, back when we were in the same homeschooling community. In some cases, it took a few seconds for us to recognize each other’s faces that were so familiar, though mysteriously strange at the same time.
As I was driving to the event I began to feel the weight of the accumulation of changes among all of us, especially the losses. After decades of living, we have racked up disappointments, heartaches and traumas. The days we lived back then, whether happy or sad, are not to be lived again. The “loss” of my friend Martha seemed to my melancholic mind a sort of culmination.
But once I arrived it was impossible to retain that melancholy; Martha’s love for God and for us continues to encourage us. Everyone I talked to knows “that all things work together for the good of those who love God: those who are called according to His purpose.” (Romans 8:28) Even the ones among us for whom heartaches are fresh and ongoing spoke of this truth, and of the increases in grace and mercies they have known, and of their Blessed Hope. The last hymn we sang together was “When We All Get to Heaven.”
Friends from back then who are grandparents now.
It’s only been two years since I first posted the poem below, but I wanted it again today. Of course Martha is not a loss. She is one of whom Christ said, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live.” And as for those heartaches, etc. — it’s not over till it’s over.
EVERNESS
One thing does not exist: Oblivion. God saves the metal and he saves the dross. And his prophetic memory guards from loss The moons to come, and those of evenings gone. Everything in the shadows in the glass Which, in between the day’s two twilights, you Have scattered by the thousands, or shall strew Henceforward in the mirrors that you pass. And everything is part of that diverse Crystalline memory, the universe; Whoever through its endless mazes wanders Hears door on door click shut behind his stride, And only from the sunset’s farther side Shall view at last the Archetypes and the Splendors.
I like sitting alone when the moon is shining, And there are two pines standing before the verandah; A breeze comes from the southwest, Creeping into the branches and leaves. Under the brilliant moon at midnight It whistles a cool, distant music, Like rustling rains in empty mountains And the serene harp-strings in the fall. On first hearing them, the heat of summer is washed away: And this suffocating boredom comes to an end. So I keep awake the whole night, Both the heart and body becoming clear. Along the south street coaches and horses are stirring, In the west city sounds of playing and singing. Who knows that under the roof-trees of this place The ears are full, but not with noise.
