13

Buried

MARCH

Afew days before Jamie, Dylan, and the kids were scheduled to arrive from North Carolina, Wren was ready to call them and tell them not to come. “They haven’t started driving yet,” she told Kit in her office. “There’s still time for me to say I can’t manage the stress.”

Kit folded her hands on her desk. “What about it feels most stressful to you?”

“Everything.” Wren paced back and forth. “I still don’t even know which paintings I can use, and I feel like I’ll lose days of preparing for the real event by trying to entertain them. I love my family and everything, but Phoebe can get really clingy and demanding, and I don’t have time or energy for that right now.”

Kit had never met the littlest Crawford—and she hadn’t seen the older kids since they were in elementary school—but she knew from Dylan and Jamie that Phoebe could be a challenge. “It sounds like they have lots of other plans while they’re out here,” she said, “between Olivia’s college tours and their trip to Chicago.”

“Yes, but I think they’re hoping I’ll go with them to Chicago. And that’s the last thing I need right now.”

“So, say that.”

Wren stopped pacing and sighed. “I’ve already disappointed them so often the past few months. Every time I talk with Phoebe, she mentions me not being there for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I feel like I should try to make it up to her.”

In the silence, Sarah’s words returned, how Morgan and Jess had been disappointed by her absence at Christmas. “We’re dust, remember?” Kit said. “We’ve got physical and emotional and psychological limits. Your parents will understand, even if Phoebe doesn’t. Maybe you could do something special with her while she’s here. Take her to Kingsbury Gardens to see the butterflies. I bet she’d love that. My granddaughters always did when they were younger.”

Wren appeared to be considering this.

“And as far as the paintings go,” Kit said, “put out what you can. I’ll write reflection questions for whatever stations you decide to do. And it will be a beautiful journey of prayer. The Spirit will bring it all to life.” Remember, it’s not about you, Kit wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, she said, “I know you didn’t want to look at the other art so you wouldn’t be influenced”—she didn’t say the word, intimidated—“but you might feel better if you really know that the pressure’s off.” Wren stared at her. “So, what do you say? Want to have a look?”

Wren nodded slowly. “Okay.”

A few hours later Kit found Wren kneeling on the floor in the chapel, surrounded by paintings from other artists. “I’ve found one I definitely want to use,” she said, and gestured toward a favorite of Kit’s: a painting of Jesus, arms extended as though he were still hanging from the cross. But no cross was visible. Instead, the bright colors and explosion of light around him testified to his victory over the grave. In a single painting the artist had managed to capture both his sacrifice and his resurrection. “This could be the one for ‘It is finished,’ don’t you think?”

“Yes, it would be great for that.”

“There’s so much hope and confidence in this,” Wren said. “It’s the sort of painting I need to keep sitting with, the kind I know I’m not ready to paint. And if I use it, I need to get over myself and let my work be what it is, without measuring or comparing it against something like this.”

“That sounds like a wonderful discipline to practice,” Kit said.

Wren sat back on her knees. “Another dying, right? I’ve got to let go of my own expectations and try to focus on doing this as prayer and worship.” She gave Kit a wry smile. “Guess I’ll never run out of things to relinquish.”

“Well, look how much older I am than you, and I haven’t found the end of it yet. The circumstances change, but many of the underlying issues remain.” Kit paused. “I don’t say that to discourage you. If anything, I’m saying, Don’t be discouraged by the process. It is what it is. We just keep offering our yes.”

“And let go of the outcome,” Wren said quietly.

“Right.”

Wren rose to her feet and brushed off her jeans. “I’ve done a few more paintings, if you’re interested in seeing them. I mean, they’re not finished, but . . . ”

Kit smiled at her. “Or maybe they are,” she said, and followed Wren to the studio.

While Wren was out with Mara that evening, Kit sat with her lit Christ candle, a blank pad of paper in front of her. Perhaps before writing any formal letter of resignation to the board, there was one more step of prayer for her to take. Katherine Rhodes, age 75, she wrote at the top of the page, left her role as director of the New Hope Retreat Center on—she paused. When might she leave it? What would best serve the ministry? Try to hold on to another set of programming in the fall, or let go early enough for them to reenvision what autumn might look like without her?

She pulled out her calendar and scanned the upcoming commitments. Once the Lenten retreat was over, there were only guest facilitators scheduled to lead events through the spring and summer. All of them had been leading workshops and retreats at New Hope for many years. It wouldn’t be difficult for someone to oversee the coordination of their needs. And if the board wanted her to remain part time for a while to help with a transition, she could do that. That was how she had originally transitioned into her role as the director: after leading the fall Sacred Journey retreats for a few years and offering other workshops as she was able, she had discerned a call to leave the ministry of chaplaincy to say yes to full-time work at New Hope.

It was time to let go.

She thumbed through the calendar again. Easter would be too soon to give notice. Or would it? She had already mentioned to the board that she was prayerfully considering the timing of her departure. Perhaps she could present her formal resignation the week after Easter and then let the board decide what work they wanted her to continue to do.

Or . . .

She traced her finger over one particular date: March 31. The thirty-sixth anniversary of Micah’s death. And this year, Holy Saturday, the day of hope mingled with sorrow, the day of keeping watch to see what might rise from the dead. That was her day to write the letter and let go.

The front door opened and closed. Wren called her greeting. Kit called back, then quietly tore the piece of paper from the pad and tucked it underneath as Wren rounded the corner.

“Good time with Mara?” Kit asked.

“She’s wonderful. There’s nothing false about her. That’s why I love having her look at my work. She’ll tell me if it’s crap.”

Kit laughed. “Yes, she will. And did she?”

“No. She says I’m the one who’s full of it and that it would be selfish of me not to put out what I’ve done so that other people can pray with it.” She unwound her scarf. “She did say my painting of Jesus was ugly, though.”

Kit raised her eyebrows. She had seen it in Wren’s studio that day: a haunting image of the Man of Sorrows keeping silent before his accusers.

“She didn’t say it in a mean way,” Wren said. “It was just the first thing she blurted out when she saw it.”

Kit could imagine Mara doing so and suppressed a smile.

“Casey used to say the same exact thing about Vincent’s portraits,” Wren went on, “so I guess I could take it as a compliment. I was trying to capture the essence of Jesus’ spirit and the meaning of that moment instead of doing something literal. That’s what Vincent wanted to do with the people he painted.” She fiddled with the tassels on her scarf. “Anyway, it ended up speaking to Mara, and she couldn’t stop staring at it. So I guess that’s something. And if I incorporate ashes into it, I guess that could make it even more meaningful. To me, at least.”

Kit rested her elbows on the kitchen table and clasped her hands together. “I think that’s a powerful vision, Wren. And as for the painting being ‘ugly,’ I’d say it’s compelling. It’s like Isaiah says, that there was no majesty or beauty to attract us to him, that he was oppressed and afflicted. To me, your painting expresses Jesus’ solidarity with us. And I love that it’s not a traditional image of him. I hope you’ll keep it.”

“I’ll keep working with it, anyway,” Wren said, “and see where it goes.”

Kit decided not to press her. Let the Spirit do his work.

Wren clutched her scarf to her chest. “I was thinking about something else while I was out,” she said, “how I need to write a forgiveness and goodbye letter to Casey. At first I thought I could burn it and use the ashes in the Jesus painting. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I don’t want it mixed with his mother’s text. I want to give it a proper burial, and not in a random place. So I wondered if it would be okay to do it at New Hope. In the courtyard garden.”

Kit was too surprised to reply.

“I know there are already lots of flowers planted there, so I got to thinking, what if I took the sunflower seeds from Casey’s flowers and planted them? Then it would be a sort of memorial, even if it’s temporary. A tribute to Vincent too.”

“It’s a beautiful idea, Wren.”

“It would be okay, then? Burying the letter and planting the seeds out there?”

“Of course.”

Wren thanked her. “New Hope was the last place Casey and I were together. It’s where he was thinking about Jesus and where he made some important decisions, whatever they were. I’ll have to bury my unknowing about all that too.” She gazed out a window, her pensive expression reflecting in the glass. “I’m not ready to write it yet. I’m not sure when I will be. But if I’ve got something meaningful to do with the letter after I’ve written it, I think it will help me say the hard things I need to say.”

Kit stared at the smoke curling upward from the Christ candle and offered a silent prayer for her. The day Wren could name the truth about the hurt Casey had caused and the ways he had deceived her would be a significant milestone in her journey of grief.

“I’ve read his goodbye letter so often,” Wren said, “I’ve memorized it. There’s that line where he says that if I paint the thief on the cross—the one who said he was sorry—I could paint his face and think of him. I’m not ready to do anything like that. I might never be. But when I was reading that story today, it struck me that maybe I’ve been interpreting that part of his note wrong. Because even though the thief knew his own guilt, he turned to Jesus and said, ‘Remember me.’ Like even though he knew what he deserved, he had hope. Maybe Casey was telling me that. Not only asking me to remember him, but telling me he’d asked Jesus to remember him too.”

Aware of the lump rising in her throat, Kit smiled gently at her.

Wren smiled back. “You know what? I actually caught myself being happy today. And immediately felt guilty about it. Then it was as if I heard Casey’s voice again, chiding me and telling me to get over myself and move on because he has. Don’t get me wrong. I’d give anything to have Casey back. But today it was like I finally embraced the possibility of having him present in a different way. If that makes sense.”

Kit nodded and rose to embrace her.

MARCH 17

My dear Wren,

Today, after leading the Lenten retreat, I spent time in my office reading the obituaries I wrote a couple of months ago for my marriage, my identity as Robert’s wife, and my identity as Micah’s mother. Even though these things died many years ago, I think there’s something important about embalming them with love and gratitude and giving them a proper burial. It’s not that I haven’t already seen evidence of resurrection life after all these deaths. I have. But the act of naming the deaths is an invitation to name and remember the resurrections too.

As I write to you, I’m remembering our conversation about writing an obituary for our need for closure. I mentioned to you in an earlier letter that Micah’s death was deemed “accidental.” Though I suppose there was no way to know for sure, I gripped that word as a lifeline while I fought to recover. Psychologically, I couldn’t bear the thought that it was otherwise. Sometimes, in the face of mystery, we have to give ourselves the ending we need in order to move forward.

There came a time—eventually—when I was well enough to entertain the possibility that Micah couldn’t bear to live the life he’d been given and that the drugs he’d used to self-medicate were the ones he used to deliberately end his pain. People might say, Why does it matter? Your son is dead. Yes, and knowing for sure how and why he died doesn’t change a thing about that.

But here’s what I discovered: the closure I’d tried to bring by telling myself the version of the story that was easier to bear wasn’t a strong enough seal against the unresolved questions, guilt, or regret that pursued me. I had to offer the Lord my need for closure about Micah’s death. So, I guess in a way I did write that obituary years ago, though I didn’t frame it like that at the time. All I knew was that I needed to bury that haunting mystery in the tomb of unknowing and then roll the stone into place so I wouldn’t continue to be tormented by “if only” and “what if.” Not that those weedy phrases don’t rise up in new, ugly, and invasive ways in other places and circumstances. But we can become quicker at discerning them and plucking them out.

Someday all the mysteries of this life will be solved. But will that really matter when we see how thoroughly life has swallowed up death? When the tomb is finally opened and we see that it truly is empty, will any of the unresolved details matter?

Still, as long as we remain in these earthly bodies, we offer God our questions. We offer all our sorrow and bewilderment. We trust that our groans rise as fragrant incense before the throne of God. And we ask Jesus to catch and hold our tears.

I’m glad you’re thinking about what kind of goodbye letter to write to Casey. I’m glad you’re giving prayerful attention to a meaningful burial, combined with the hope of resurrection. In the face of an unexpected death, we’re often so numb and overwhelmed, we can hardly manage the details of burial. That’s why these other later burials can be so significant—an opportunity to be awake and reverent and aware of God’s presence with us as we begin to realize all the other losses contained in the one death.

I picture the rush of Jesus’ friends, trying to remove his body from the cross and bury him before the Sabbath began. I imagine the agony of the women, already distraught at laying him in the tomb, their distress exacerbated by the reality that they couldn’t embalm him as they desired and as he deserved. There was no time to lovingly anoint him. It was all too sudden. Too hurried. In the hours that followed, including the dark hours of Holy Saturday, they weren’t thinking that they would find an open and empty tomb when they returned. They were only thinking that they would have time to weep, mourn, and say their final goodbyes. But their grieving was suddenly and gloriously interrupted when they saw him face to face. So it will be with us someday.

I look forward to a spring day together, long after the danger of frost has passed, when you and I will kneel to bury and plant. And I look forward to a summer day when those dazzling golden orbs, their heavy heads mirroring the sun and tracking its movement across the sky, remind us of the irrepressible power of Life.

With you,

Kit