Angel's Craft
A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN
Consumed
by my loss, I didn't notice the hardness of the pew where I sat. I was at the funeral of my dearest friend -
my mother.
She
finally had lost her long battle with cancer.
The hurt was so intense; I found it hard to breathe at times.
Always
supportive, my mother clapped loudest at my school plays, held a box of tissues
while listening to my first heartbreak, comforted me at my father's death,
encouraged me in college, and prayed for me my entire life.
When
my mother's illness was diagnosed, my sister had a new baby and my brother had
recently married his childhood sweetheart, so it fell on me, the 27-year-old
middle child without entanglements, to take care of her. I counted it an honor.
"What
now, lord?" I asked sitting in
church. My life stretched out before me
as an empty abyss. My brother sat
stoically with his face toward the cross while clutching his wife's hand. My sister sat slumped against her husband's
shoulder, his arms around her as she cradled their child.
All
so deeply grieving, no one noticed I sat alone. My place had been with our mother, preparing her meals, helping
her walk, taking her to the doctor, seeing to her medication, reading the Bible
together. Now she was with the
lord. My work was finished, and I was
alone.
I
heard a door open and slam shut at the back of the church. Quick footsteps hurried along the carpeted
floor. An exasperated young man looked
around briefly and then sat next to me.
He folded his hands and placed them on his lap.
His
eyes were brimming with tears. He began
to sniffle. "I'm late," he explained, though no explanation was
necessary.
After
several eulogies, he leaned over and commented, "Why do they keep calling
Mary by the name of 'Margaret'?"
"Because
that was her name, Margaret. Never 'Mary'. No one called her 'Mary'," I
whispered. I wondered why this person
couldn't have sat on the other side of the church. He interrupted my grieving with his tears and fidgeting. Who was this stranger anyway?
"No,
that isn't correct," he insisted, as several people glanced over at us
whispering, "Her name is Mary, Mary Peters."
"That
isn't who this is."
"Isn't
this the Lutheran church?"
"No,
the Lutheran church is across the street."
"Oh."
"I
believe you're at the wrong funeral, Sir."
The
solemness of the occasion mixed with the realization of the man's mistake
bubbled up inside me and came out as laughter.
I cupped my hands over my face, hoping it would be interpreted as sobs. The creaking pew gave me away. Sharp looks from other mourners only made
the situation seem more hilarious. I
peeked at the bewildered, misguided man seated beside me. He was laughing too, as he glanced around,
deciding it was too late for an uneventful exit.
I
imagined mother laughing.
At
the final "Amen," we darted out a door and into the parking lot.
"I
do believe we'll be the talk of the town," he smiled. He said his name was Rick and since he had
missed his aunt's funeral, asked me out for a cup of coffee.
That
afternoon began a lifelong journey for me with this man who attended the wrong
funeral, but was in the right place. A
year after our meeting, we were married at a country church where he was the
assistant pastor. This time we both
arrived at the same church, right on time.
In
my time of sorrow, God gave me laughter.
In place of loneliness, God gave me love. This past June we celebrated our twenty-second wedding
anniversary.
Whenever
anyone asks us how we met, Rick tells them, "Her mother and my Aunt Mary
introduced us, and it's truly a match made in heaven."
courtesy
of Karen
A COURSE IN MIRACLES [excerpt]
THINGS AREN’T ALWAYS WHAT THEY SEEM
Check
out my web links page to see where I got my neat
new backgrounds.