My Father’s Robe

This week is always a memorable one every year.  What would have been my father’s107th birthday, the 16^th anniversary of my mother’s death, and as I write this, the 16^th anniversary of her funeral, all occurred in this first week of February.  It was only as I began to think about writing this that I recognized I had been sleeping in my mother’s nightgown this week.  I have other things of my mother’s, some jewelry, a few scarves. Even more precious, I have a ring she had made for me from her wedding rings and, most dear of all, a scrapbook of some of her poetry and other collected writings of meaning to her.  But to sleep in her nightgown seems to make her feel close.  I am sentimental that way.

My father’s robe is another story.  My father lived with us for the last five months of his life.  When he died, I went into a deep depression.  I would sometimes sit in the apartment attached to our house where he had stayed, often wearing his robe.  It still hangs in my closet though I rarely wear it now.  As I prepare to observe Lent, I am gathering 40 items to give away.  It is a lovely robe in excellent condition.  I vascillate.  Someone could get a lot of wear out of that robe.  It has been 15 years since he died.  I could think of it as a way to honor his memory if I gave it to charity.  And yet I hesitate.

I recall someone I worked with whose young daughter had died of cancer after a long battle.  I worked a long time with that grieving mother, who so longed to “join” her daughter that she was nearly starving herself to death.  When we finally reached the point, four years after her daughter’s death, that she felt ready to dispense with her daughter’s things, we arranged for a little memorial ceremony for her belongings.  I discovered that in four years, she had never even opened the door to her daughter’s room.  We blessed the clothes, the books, the crayons, all the childhood paraphernalia and designated places for everything to be donated that could be.  In time, the grieving mother found her way back to life and health.

Perhaps I’ve answered my own question.

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.  Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus:  I have no memory of having selected this poem, or how it came to be in the funeral bulletin for my father.  I only noticed it some years later going through some memorabilia.  Though it isn’t how I imagine afterlife works, I expect it is exactly as my father understood it.  It isn’t great poetry either, but I found it comforting when I discovered it.

“To Those I Love”

“When I am gone, release me, let me go.

I have so many things to see and do.

You mustn’t tie yourself to me with tears.

Be happy that we had so many years.

I gave you my love. You can only guess

How much you gave to me in happiness.

I thank you for the love you each have shown,

But now it’s time I traveled on alone.

So grieve awhile for me if grieve you must

Then let your grief be comforted by trust.

It’s only for awhile that we must part

So bless the memories within your heart.

I won’t be far away, for life goes on.

So if you need me, call and I will come.

Though you can’t see or touch me, I’ll be near.

And if you listen with your heart, you’ll hear

All of my love around you soft and clear.

And then, when you must come this way alone,

I’ll greet you with a smile and say ‘Welcome Home.’”