Starting
Point Writing in the margins of our lives
By JAMES STEPHEN
BEHRENS
Many years ago I was waiting for my
friend to gather his bags and say farewell to his parents. He was on his way to
Rome and I offered to drive him to the airport. His mom and dad were well on in
years. I was in their living room and Dick was talking with them in the dining
room.
They were talking in hushed tones. Their voices were tender and
hushed because that is the way goodbyes are between parents and sons, and, I
think, especially the parents of a priest. I sensed a reverence between them.
I looked to my left and there was a small stack of books on a
table near the arm of the chair. I picked one up. It was by Cardinal John Henry
Newman. I opened it and started to browse through the well-read pages. It
belonged to Dick -- his name was written on the first page -- but the
handwriting in the margins of the pages was his moms. She had read with
obvious care. Her heart and memory worked along with her eyes as she read and
noted impressions and thoughts in the margins.
Dick returned from Rome. His parents were well. I went to lunch
with them and looking at his mom, I thought about her reading by the light of
the lamp, taking in the soft light and words, and then picking up a pen and
writing in the clean margins of that book.
Dicks dad passed away some years after. I was with Dick in
the hospital as his dad moved on to new life, helped along by the love and
prayers and heartache of his mom.
I received a letter from Dick yesterday. His mom had passed away.
She was 98 years old. I felt a sadness when I read the letter. No matter what
age, to lose a parent is to lose such a deep love.
Earlier that day, I had read a few lines written by Jean Sulivan,
a French priest who died in 1980. At the start of his journal called Morning
Light, he wrote: It had to be Mother who passed on the heritage to
me, she who had nothing else to leave, just as her parents had passed it on to
her. In her house the father used to read the Old and the New Testament aloud
every winter evening, and even the dogs didnt dare move.
The heritage is that of the gospel -- the heritage of faith, given
from parents to a son. Faith and love are all we have to leave behind someday.
They last. They live on in the flesh and spirit of sons and daughters, friends
and loves.
Life is like a gift of so much living text -- with clean margins.
We write in those margins with the daily entries of our words and gestures of
love, mercy, hope, longing, praying. And sometimes we really do write, write
with a pen of our love for words and God. As I read the words of Dicks
mother that day, she may well have been kissing her son, holding his hand,
wishing him well. She was living her writing in the margin of life -- an
ordinary day, a sad farewell, an unwritten, unsigned day of a human life.
Most of our days are just like that.
And now God holds her, and reminds her of what she wrote and how
she loved. God, too, wrote in the margins of her life, and the writing spilled
into the text of her days and nights through her loving, her aching, her
praying, her writing.
Gods writing lasts, too.
Trappist Fr. James Stephen Behrens lives at Holy Spirit
Monastery in Conyers, Ga. His e-mail address is
james@trappist.net
National Catholic Reporter, March 16,
2001
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