2

The Gift of Myrrh

EPIPHANY

She and Robert had argued in an office lobby similar to the one where she now waited for Wren to finish her counseling appointment. Kit had asked him to lower his voice—please—especially in front of other patients. They could speak to the counselor privately about what kind of addiction treatment programs might be most helpful for their son. But Robert had heard of such programs, and it was a waste of money, he said. Perfectly normal for teenagers to experiment. He had experimented when he was Micah’s age and hadn’t suffered any long-term detriment. She was hovering and controlling, Robert said, and maybe if she weren’t so judgmental and condemning—maybe if she would just back off and give Micah space to figure things out, and yes, fail if he needed to, why did she think she could prevent that?—he would outgrow this rebellious phase, just as Robert had.

There was no arguing her husband out of his position, especially when the counselor “took her side” and agreed that more aggressive treatment, which could also help address Micah’s underlying depression, would be a prudent course of action. Robert refused to meet with the counselor again, and his disparaging remarks about therapy in general and Micah’s therapist in particular—which he routinely made in front of their son—severed Micah’s already tenuous commitment to his appointments. Kit couldn’t force him to go. She’d tried and failed.

Wren, thankfully, did not object to going to her appointments, and her counselor had wisely set multiple dates in advance so Wren wouldn’t have to exert herself in making phone calls. All Kit needed to do was remind her when it was time to go and drive her there. And reassure Jamie that yes, Wren was meeting with Dawn. Jamie had learned not to press for specifics, much as she longed for them. Kit understood the longing. And the fear.

She flipped through a magazine, looking at photos. On their way out, she would ask the receptionist if she could have some of the outdated ones to cut up for prayer collages for the retreat session that night. Wren would need to go with her to New Hope so she wouldn’t be alone at the house, and while Kit led the retreat, Wren would probably sleep in one of the guestrooms. Not the one where Casey was supposed to stay, though. Kit had closed and locked that door, thinking it would be better for her if she couldn’t access that space. But sometimes Kit found her in the chapel, resting her head on the chair where he had left his goodbye letter. Vincent had painted a friend’s empty chair, Wren had said in one of her more lucid moments. Empty chairs made her cry.

Kit let her mind drift to their old kitchen table, Micah’s chair pulled out at precisely the angle he had left it. At least, she thought it was the way he’d left it. There had been no memorable last supper together, only an ordinary dinner with their forks scraping against their plates, the sound amplified by the absence of conversation. If she had known she would find her beloved boy the next morning, cold in his bed, what last words would she have tried to speak to him? What words would she have begged him to speak to her?

At least Wren had Casey’s handwritten note—his intentions a mystery, yes, but his love and regret unmistakable. That was a gift.

Dawn’s office door opened and Wren emerged, her dark, unwashed hair partially covered by Casey’s beanie. If Kit could persuade her to relinquish the hat for an hour, she could wash it for her. Wren probably wasn’t aware of the odor emanating from her clothes or body. She hardly had energy to change a shirt, let alone shower, poor thing.

“I’ll see you next week,” Dawn said, her hand resting on Wren’s shoulder. If Wren replied, audibly or otherwise, Kit missed it. But for a moment her own gaze met Dawn’s, and Dawn acknowledged her with a nod, as if to say, “Thank you” and “Please keep doing what you’re doing.”

Kit set the magazine down on the end table. She had enough prayer collage photos to choose from. She would ask for extras another time.

“It won’t take me long to get things organized,” she said as they drove to New Hope. “Then we can head home for a rest before we come back for the retreat.” Straightforward and brief declarations rather than questions seemed to work best. Asking Wren what she felt well enough to do or giving her options only overwhelmed her.

Kit glanced toward the passenger seat, where Wren was leaning her head against the window, eyes closed. The therapy appointments, as necessary as they were, probably exhausted her. Kit remembered nothing from her counseling appointments after Micah died, only that Robert drove her because she didn’t trust herself behind the wheel of a car. He drove her to the psychiatric hospital too, after her counselor insisted she needed inpatient treatment. Kit hadn’t had the energy to object, not to the therapist or Robert, who carried in her suitcase after her intake exam. Odd, how some images were indelibly branded into memory while others left no imprint. He’d set the burgundy case on the green paisley carpet, kissed her on the cheek, and said he’d call the hospital later to check on her. He kept his word. About that, he did.

At New Hope she parked in front of the lobby entrance and opened the car door for Wren when she gave no sign of exiting. “There you go,” Kit said as she reached for her hand, “watch your step here. That’s it. We’ll just check in with Gayle and see what else needs to be done to get ready.” A few weeks ago Wren would have been the one scrubbing bathrooms, vacuuming hallways, and tidying the chapel. Now if she managed to use a duster, it was a victory. Thankfully, Gayle, the part-time receptionist, was willing to put in extra hours to help. She was sympathetic: she had an adult daughter who suffered from depression.

After greeting both of them warmly, Gayle handed Kit a registration list and a few file folders. “I’ve pulled out some of the photo categories I thought might be helpful for the collages.”

Kit thumbed through the labels: food, architecture, nature. These were probably Gayle’s own preferences. “Let’s add the ‘hands and feet’ and ‘roads and pathways’ files too,” Kit said, “for variety’s sake.” She paused, trying to discern her next move, then decided to tread lightly. “Here—let’s ask the artist, shall we?” She lightly touched Wren’s coat sleeve to try to draw her in. “Wren’s done these collages before and has a good eye for such things. Let’s set the folders down on the table here and take a look.” Kit went to the file cabinet and removed the rest of them. “There’s an ‘art’ one here—I forgot I had that one. And an ‘objects’ one and a ‘people and faces’ one.” She set the manila folders next to one another without opening them. “Let’s take a look here, Wren. Just the titles. And you give me a yay or nay. What’s good for a New Year theme? Art?”

She watched Wren for any response. After a few long moments of silence, Wren nodded.

“Okay, good,” Kit said. “What about food?”

Her response was marginally quicker—a slight shake of the head. Not surprising. Ever since Casey died, Kit hadn’t found much food that enticed her. “Okay, we’ll set this one aside for now. But this one is kind of interesting, the ‘hands and feet’ one. Would you like to take a look and see what you think?”

To Kit’s delight, Wren reached forward and opened the file herself. After a moment’s silence, she murmured, “Yes.”

Such a good word, yes. “Right. And what about one more? How about if you choose between the ‘roads and pathways’ and ‘people and faces’?”

Wren hesitated, then said quietly, “You could put all of them out.”

Kit smiled. “Well, you’re right about that. There’s no reason not to, is there? Let people choose from a wide variety of what speaks to them. Good idea.” She gathered the file folders together and nudged Wren’s shoulder gently. “Maybe even the food one, huh? Someone might like to choose a cake or plum or something.”

Wren nodded again. Kit handed her the folders. “I’ll get the glue sticks and cardstock squares, if you can carry these folders down to the big classroom for me and set them on the table. We can either leave the folders for people to browse through, or we can pull out some photos for them to select from. Could you do that for me, Wren? Carry those to the room?”

“Okay.”

“Great. I’ll be there in a minute.” After Wren disappeared around the corner, Kit thanked Gayle.

“Sure thing.” Gayle lowered her voice. “She seems a little brighter today, don’t you think?”

“Maybe a bit.”

It was a temptation she would need to fight, Kit thought as she walked down the hallway a few minutes later—the temptation to monitor Wren moment by moment for signs of improvement. It was something she had cautioned Jamie about as well, how it was more important to look for a larger trajectory toward wellness than at the daily questions of, “Did she eat? Did she shower? Did she change her clothes? Did she get out of bed? Did she engage in any conversation?” Not that those activities wouldn’t be significant vital signs. But they couldn’t become a basis for hope. Only Christ crucified and risen could bear the weight of human hope. All other things would crumble under it. All earthly things, it seemed, did.

When Kit entered the large retreat space, Wren was at the center table, hovering over a jumbled mass of images, as if she had dumped out all the folders to swirl the pictures together. No matter. Kit could sort them again afterward. “Finding anything interesting?”

Wren gripped the top of her beanie with both hands and leaned closer to the table. Then she picked up a single scrap of paper, crumpled it, and stuffed it into her sweatpants pocket while murmuring something.

“What did you say, dear one?” Kit moved toward her, so she could hear if she replied.

“Too sad,” Wren said.

Kit scanned the table, wondering what had provoked her. “Yes, I suppose some of them are, aren’t they?” She reached for a photo of an elderly couple sitting on a park bench, feeding the birds. “Even the ones that look happy can be sad, can’t they?” Especially if they portrayed broken dreams or unfulfilled longings. “We could make prayer collages sometime of all sad things, if you’d like.”

Wren turned toward her, her large brown eyes dull and tired. Then she reached into her pocket, uncrumpled the photo, and handed it to Kit.

“Yes,” Kit said quietly, “I see what you mean. That’s very sad.” With a deep breath, she handed back to Wren the photo of a young father cradling a sleeping infant close to his heart.

JANUARY 6

My dear Wren,

I had planned to lead the retreat group last night in prayerful reflection about new beginnings. But the time with you at the table yesterday, looking at pictures that mirrored our sorrow, inspired a different idea. So instead, I invited the group to choose images that reflected gifts they have longed for and received—or haven’t received. I asked them, too, to choose images of things they have received that they wished they hadn’t been given. It was a rich and meaningful time of communion as they shared the stories behind the images that stirred them.

As I thought about what I would have put in my own collage, here’s what came to mind: a smiling couple on their wedding day, a pair of baby shoes, a high school graduation, an elderly woman sitting beside her husband on a park bench, and, like you, a young dad holding a baby.

Retrospect can be a gift, enabling us to see with gratitude what we may have missed the first time around. It can also be a burden, coloring otherwise happy occasions with the grief of losses we experience afterward. Like a wedding day photo of a couple deeply in love, having no reason to believe their love would not endure, having no inkling of the sorrows or trials that would devastate them even as they pledged “for better and for worse” to one another. Or that first pair of shoes purchased for a baby ready to take his first steps into the world. The parents coo and cheer those steps of freedom and independence, never thinking about the steps the child may take that lead toward suffering. It’s a blessing for these moments not to be tainted by shadows of what may be, but to be fully savored as the good and generous gifts they are, given to us by a good and generous God.

As my beloved granddaughters took their first steps, I watched with a bittersweet joy I could not reveal to my daughter. I didn’t want to taint Sarah’s experience of unadulterated delight. The girls will have their own journeys to make, and I watch and pray and long for them, even as I know I have no control over where their paths will lead. This is right and good and also hard. We are created in the image of a God who loves us too much to control us and who gives us freedom to choose even the paths that lead away from him. What a great and mysterious love. And also hard.

As you already know, my marriage did not survive the devastation of Micah’s death. This is not to say that Micah’s death caused it to end. Robert and I had already experienced many fractures that hadn’t been properly attended to. And though we divorced many years ago, and though it’s been seven years now since Robert died, the sight of a couple growing old together, whether in a photo or in person, has the power to tap and churn my latent sorrow.

That’s the thing about losses: they stretch in both directions, coloring the past and the future. It’s not only the loss itself but all the losses that follow. I don’t only grieve what I lost with Micah and Robert. I also grieve the things that will never be, because of losing them. We were never able to celebrate Micah’s graduation from high school. I didn’t get to see my son start a career or a family. Robert and I didn’t grow old together. That’s why I don’t think we ever stop grieving what we lose. I don’t say this to discourage you but to affirm your sorrow. The grieving changes. The manifestation of grieving evolves. Some losses are soothed and healed by the passage of time. Others leave gaps that are never filled. You will always miss Casey because you will always love your friend. Sorrow is the painful evidence of our love.

Today—Epiphany—is a good day for me to be thinking about gifts: the good ones and the hard ones. I’ve been thinking about the magi and how that group of pagan astrologers recognized in the heavens a sign that others missed, and they devoted themselves to following it, no matter what the cost. I’ve been pondering the particular gifts they brought to Jesus, each gift a prophetic declaration of who he is and what his mission would be.

Gold. That’s a gift a poor family might have gratefully received as a fitting tribute for a king. Frankincense. That would have been a fitting offering to a god—a fragrant resin used in sacrifice. Both were appropriate gifts for the Son of God, born King of the Jews. But it’s the last one that catches my attention, the gift of myrrh. Isaiah doesn’t mention it when he prophesies about the gold and frankincense that faraway nations and kings will bring to worship the Lord. And I wonder what Mary must have thought when they presented this anointing oil, used to embalm the dead, to her boy. Did she recoil from the terror of it? Did she, like Peter when Jesus predicted his cross, declare, “Never! This shall never happen to you!” or did she say, not for the first time and probably not for the last, “Let it be to me according to your word”?

What do we do with our unwanted gifts of myrrh, when the fragrance of death and sorrow lingers and clings? I’ve come to see there is only one way to receive it: by remembering that Jesus received it first. And not just him, but also those who loved him. And in this, I find comfort.

With you,

Kit