She spoke up before we sat down calling out from the pew behind Hello, I’m Kathy Ann Smith. I’m not sure she said Kathy Ann or Smith or what exactly she said I hadn’t taken notice, I only half heard it was three all too ordinary names Mary Karen Lynn Sue Beth Jones Turner Ross Ingram well not Ingram that’s mine I would have heard that I was caught off guard nodded politely not knowing her sat down in the pew set down my things and wondered if she was a visitor and why was I so bad at introductions and small talk so much for my role in a welcoming church She spoke again continued persisted Do you know who I am? I turned to her with an embarrassed smile (I dared not say aloud, no, I do not know who you are) She stretched out her hand I shook it and introduced myself I took her in petite and gray somewhat older than me I tried ever so quickly to remember to assess to know if I had met her before She continued I wonder if you know my husband, Bob? Bob? I asked, confused, trying to quickly process who that might be another common name gone blank in my mind Bob Smith, he died this past week Pastor sent word to the congregation The funeral is Thursday oh how I blanched horrified at my gaffe I was so slow to put it all together Bob was a long-time member who had been ill for quite some time we had just heard word of his passing I babbled OhyesyesIknew yourhusbandIamsosorrytohearof hisdeathI’msosorryforyourloss She continued assuredly Well, he loved this church. I didn’t really come here much. It was his thing, on Sundays. But I thought I’d come today, in his honor. I miss him. She reached into her purse and took out a framed photo of him turning it towards me Isn’t he handsome here? and so we sat talking she sharing her grief me listening until the church service began this experience meeting her this odd unexpected holy conversation I’ve held onto it imagine a new widow naming her loss sharing her grief its utter rawness placing it into strangers’ hands so that we might help her hold it refreshing and innocent, I think I am reminded of how young children know instinctively that pain is shared crying out for every knee scrape every collapse of a block tower every broken cookie When does the learning begin to swallow to lock it within to keep it to oneself to get over it to bear it alone or quietly? Typically the grieving stand apart shaken and sad and solemn we whisper concernedly make tender remarks write cards I am grateful for her honesty her openness her clarity Help. This hurts. I am awed.
...for those times when I manage to visit my writing
