A Trace

    My grandson is five days old and, as a grandmother and a writer, I feel a little guilty that I have not yet written a poem about him. I have already expressed how incredibly moving it was for me to find out Lee's middle name was Trace. And since very few of a baby's personality traits are revealed in the first week of life, (most infants are deceptively calm at that age) I think this first poem for my grandson will be about his name and his namesake.

A Trace

 

Oh grandson snuggled in my arms,

I know you're not my son reborn,

but your parents, in an act of grace,

gave you the middle name of Trace.

The nickname that I called my son

who died before you were yet born.

Your uncle would be glad to see

a nephew in this family.

He would have loved to have a boy

to teach the things that he enjoyed,

like finding lures the fish would bite,

or tools that fit the job just right.

 

Like Grandpa, Trace was one of those   

skilled to build or fix anything he chose--

except the hole he left behind

in our family's hearts and minds.

 

So you will have to wait a while

to hear his voice and see his smile,

 but though he's far from our embrace,

within your name he left a trace.

12/28/24

 

A Son is Given

    The Christmas after Tracy died, the verse that resonated most with me was Luke 2:35 a sword shall pierce through your own soul also. You are having a bad year when that is the verse that reflects your life. This year the Christmas verse that most applies is Isaiah 9:6 unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given. Our fourth grandchild, and first grandson, was born yesterday morning. Will and Emily chose to wait until delivery for the gender reveal, so they needed to choose names for either sex, just like we did in the olden days. I did not learn until they announced his arrival, that the name they had chosen for a son was Lee Trace Lamb. 

   They did not know, no one did, that my private prayer to the Lord for the past few months was the hope they might use some form of Tracy's name for their baby. I did not tell them because I would not put that kind of pressure on, what needs to be, their personal choice, not coerced by the wishes of a grieving mother. And I did not tell anyone else because I did not want them searching me for real or imagined signs of disappointment. I do not believe I would have been disappointed with another name. It would be hard to be disappointed about the birth of a grandchild, unless they named him Hitler. But I also knew that I would cry if they did use Tracy's name, and I did.

    When the Lord gives us children to steward through life, we know that someday He may ask us to give them back. To a career, marriage or ministry that takes them far away from home. To a tragedy that takes them home to heaven before us. God gave His only Son--to leave His home in heaven, to live on earth perfectly, to suffer painfully, to rise victoriously, so that those who believe in Him may enter His home in heaven freely. Our youngest son has made his home there for close to three years. And now into our family a new child has been born. Not the unique one in the Isaiah reference, but still a wonderful gift to help heal a painful loss. This Christmas we, too, can say unto us a son is given.

What Heaven Holds

      Last week we went to Fairview cemetery to decorate Tracy's grave for Christmas. I don't know how long we will keep this tradition, but it helps the winter bleakness a bit to know a wreath and lights rest near where his body does. It was at least partly sunny when we left Kalispell for our unwelcome task, but as we approached the cemetery, we drove into clouds, snow, and the wind that frequents the foothills. I had many things in mind to tell Tracy about, but the clouds and wind blew them from my mind. I did not even take a picture. I'm not sure I want to remember that day. Nor had I planned to write a poem about the event, but I was challenged by a fellow writer to match him poem for poem, and this was the result. 

 What Heaven Holds

 

I stand beside your resting place,

though snow and wind have not the grace

to grant me fleeting favor to

be still, while I spend time with you.

 

I know you don't reside in there

beneath dead grass and frigid air,

 yet when I'm here, I like to stop

to talk, as if we're catching up. 

But not today, when skies are gray

and wind weaves its irreverent sway,

to dance around the gravestones

from elderly to newborns.

 

I cannot tell how much you know

of happenings on this earth below,

the Bible says but little, by design.

Yet at your grave I use the time

 

to share the mundane matters of

the place and people that you love.

I do not need to hear from you

to know what you might say or do.

 

No earthly force can ever touch

the soul of him I love so much.

The winter wind blows bleak and cold 

but cannot reach what heaven holds.

12/22/24

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Home for Christmas

     Nearly all parents want their children to be home for Christmas, even the grown ones. This is the third year in a row Tracy will not be home for Christmas. Though his excuse for missing is indisputable, even wonderful, it also seems inexcusable for Christmas to come without Tracy. I was listening to assorted Christmas songs on Alexa as couple days ago and heard, for the first time, the song I am linking here--Christmas Lullaby/ I Will Lead You Home. For some reason, music written in three quarter time resonates with me more than other time signatures, and Amy Grant has a beautiful voice, but the thing I find most healing in this painful Christmas season is the message. Tracy is home for Christmas. It is the rest of us who are not.

The Space Where Love Has Been

    I have been needing to write this, have felt it growing inside me. Giving the structure of words to my sorrow helps me. But there are many all around us reaching out in different ways for strength to get through the bleakness that accompanies the beauty of the season. The memories that touch our hearts, remind us those we cannot touch.

 

 

The Space Where Love Has Been

 

 

A winter wind moves mutely toward

the Christmas wreath on my front door,

seeking out a broken place

for shelter in a warmer space

 

I decorate our Christmas tree,

each ornament a memory,

the twinkling lights too bright to hide

my brokenness concealed inside.

But sometimes I must let it in

the sad, but now familiar wind,

to join me in that wounded place,

warmth and winter, face to face.

 

At times we walk our separate ways,

go placidly about our days,

but Christmas beckons winter wind

to share the space where love has been. 

12/2/24