My inset into our church's Roots and Wings Newsletter for Oct.
I grew up in the sixties and seventies, in a small, secluded town, along the coast of St. Albans, Newfoundland. The bright, blue, two-story home that I once lived in with my eight sisters and five brothers have since been demolished. Today, the lot sits empty and overgrown. All that’s left is a collection of memories.
When
Mom died back in 1987, I emotionally disconnected from my hometown. Dad
had gone to live with my sister, Margaret, in Dartmouth,
Nova Scotia, and except for the few times that my sisters and I had taken
him home for a visit, I opted to stay away.
During those years, I held onto the memory of my own
families’ last visit with Mom, which took place one
month prior to her death, remembering how she glowed when she
danced with our daughter, Heather, and held our son, Patrick, for the first
time. I may not understand all of God’s ways, but I believe, without a
doubt, He gave me that time with Mom for a reason. It's a memory that I
will always cherish; a moment in time where we not only bonded as
mother/daughter but also as two loving mothers.
Over
the last few years, I often find myself reminiscing and writing about my
childhood, thinking about the hardships our large family of
fourteen had to endured, even though, in some ways, life was
much simpler back then. We had the freedom to explore, take on
new adventures, and allow our imaginations to run wild. During the
summer months, time was of no essence. It wasn't uncommon for my younger
siblings and me to leave home in the morning, lunch in hand, with the
stipulation that we return before dark.
“Take care of the little ones, Joyce,” Mom would yell as we headed up the driveway.
“I
will, Mom,” I’d yell back.
Today,
my siblings and I are orphans. Dad lost his fight to congestive heart failure
three years ago, leaving the life that we had together with our parents no
more than a memory. There are days when I feel the sadness and loneliness,
associated with an orphan's grief, rising up on the inside of me. Then I sit down
to write, because writing is a big part of my resurgence of thought. It sparks
a magical inspiration in me; it’s the magic of a little girl who
comes to life in a new light. And as I write and dig deeper into my memory
bank, whatever I am met with along the way, whatever rises up in my body,
soul, and mind, there in the midst, even amongst the tears, I find joy, I
find laughter, I find happiness, as well as pain and regret. But most
importantly, I find an incredible sense of peace; the true essence of my
awareness; it’s an epiphany of sorts that love is not earned in this life, but
freely given, with no strings attached.
And
perhaps this peace comes from knowing that both of my parents
are finally together again. Or perhaps it’s because I am fully aware that my
childhood, empty lot don't represent an empty life, heart, or mind. What it
represents is a part of my personal history; a glance back into the makings of
my inner soul; a realization that good memories are to be cherished and the bad
ones forgiven, if not forgotten; a realization that if we try to do our best
for one another in this life, that gesture of love will move us
forward.
This
fall season, the deciduous trees will once again shed their leaves,
causing them to look bare and lifeless, only to burst forward in the springtime
with new life again. My childhood, empty lot does the same for me. On the
surface, it looks overgrown and empty, but in my imagination, I bring it
back to life; a life filled with the hustle and bustle of belonging to a large
family. And it's a memory that fills my heart with thankfulness.
During
this fall season of Thanksgiving, are there things that you need to shed or
look at in a new light? What are you most thankful for?
