I
would like to think Heaven has walls.
Not a total enclosure but perhaps just an entryway to hold up the Pearly
Gates. A firm buttress of granite held in place with mortar- because mortar is
fallible and granite is not. Mortar
slowly erodes, like we humans do over time, only maybe Heaven’s crumbling wall
could allow a few, bright beams of golden light to slip out, so those of us
still waiting down here might have hope in times of darkness.
I'd also like to add a small pad of Post-It notes and a pen, lying on
a wooden stand beside the wall. This is where you’d go to tag and store the
pieces of your heart when they broke off. Here, between the rock and the bits
of crumbling sand, you’d wedge your tender losses tight and walk away.
Maybe
goodbyes would be easier to take and love easier to give, if we knew for
certain it was never wasted. If our
hurts and losses were named on folded squares of paper and basked in a golden light
on one side, while keeping darkness at bay on the other, wouldn't we feel better?
If
this were true, I would walk up to the wall tonight, rip off a yellow square and
write Bertha’s name in bold, red letters. “Here, God,” I’d say, shoving my note
deep inside an especially shiny chink. “This it the part of me that didn’t want
to let her go. The selfish bit that wanted more time to laugh and hold
on and hear what it was like to grow up in the country almost 80 years
ago. Here’s the woman who helped me more
than I ever helped her. Here’s a whole big wing of the house that is my
heart. I’d like to have it back someday.
I’d like to have all the pieces back, along with a giant bottle of Gorilla
Glue.”
Bertha
used to tell me “God’s not through with me yet. I’ll know when He is.” She
worried her almost 50 year old son couldn’t take care of himself and that her
husband wouldn’t live long without her.
She wanted to know her daughter’s cancer was in remission. She wrote a hymn to comfort her family and made me promise to sing
it at her funeral. Bertha gave and gave
and gave.
And
while I know she had cancer, I prefer to think Bertha’s heart quit beating not
because of sickness or old age but because she finally gave every piece of it away.
