Butterfly

My church has what it calls a Longest Night service, held appropriately on the winter solstice, the longest night of the year. This isn’t a celebration of the solstice, but an acknowledgment that some people are not happy during the Christmas season, some people are grieving. The grief is usually because of the death of a loved one, though could be because of a broken relationship, severe illness or depression, or something else.

One of the songs this evening was “Worn” by Tenth Avenue North. Some of the words:

I’m worn; my prayers are wearing thin.
I’m worn even before the day begins.
I’m worn; I’ve lost my will to fight.
I’m worn, so, heaven come and flood my eyes.

Le me see redemption win,
Let me know the struggle ends,
That You can mend a heart
That’s frail and torn.
I wanna know a song can rise
From the ashes from a broken life,
And all that’s dead inside can be reborn.

Melissa McEwan uses her blog Shakesville as a community meeting place. Each December she offers a place for the community to vent about why Christmas won’t be sparkly snowflakes. And readers do, offering all kinds of stories of dysfunctional families. The one that sticks in my mind is the woman who says it is not safe for her to be around her father, which means she can’t spend Christmas with her mother, brother, and his family.

My Christmas is nowhere near that bad, but life isn’t sparkly snowflakes either. Our lives have changed a lot in the last few years. I’ll have a quiet day with my sisters along with the wife of one and the daughter of the other. We’ll exchange a few simple gifts and share a meal.

I’ve attended the Longest Night service for three years now. The first one was a few months after Dad died. I don’t remember it. I remember a particular aspect of the second one very well. We were asked to write a message on a piece of paper, then come forward and slip the folded paper into the straw of the manger. My message was anger at Dad because of the enormity of the task he had dropped in my lap. I had already been cleaning out the house for 20 months and still had a long way to go. I still had to manage money for Mom’s care, which could go for several more years. In addition, Tim had died. Karen had died. I got back to my seat and the grief overwhelmed me.

This year I still had a few tears. This time the slips of paper were in the shape of stars and we were given three of them. On one I wrote a name in each point: Dad, Mom, Tim, Karen, and now Ruth and added “I miss you.” On the second I wrote, “I have completed the task as well as I am able.” The task isn’t quite done. There is still a closing on the house and a final tax season. Even so, what looked enormous a year ago is done. The house has been emptied and repaired. The investments have been distributed.

I noticed the back of the third star was a pattern of butterflies. Mom’s first bout of cancer – melanoma – was at age 50. Surgery removed part of her cheek. Melanoma appeared again at age 55. Some time after that she also had breast cancer. At age 50 Mom adopted the butterfly as a personal symbol. She saw hope in the chrysalis bursting open and a beautiful butterfly coming out. Mom’s hope was rewarded and each time she returned to a busy, vibrant life. This year the cancer came back. There was no butterfly.

Perhaps not for Mom. The task Dad dropped in my lap is (nearly) done. I intend to break into and keep a busy, vibrant life.