The Belt of Hope--Or Not

In the fall of 1996 I bought a needlepoint belt canvas--my first. It

was a U of L design, and I wanted to make it for Chris. This of course was BEFORE I knew he would root against UVA even though both his wife and daughter, not to mention multiple in-laws, attended UVA. (And may I add he did NOT attend U of L)

Anyway....

When I bought the belt Sarah Katherine was just over a year old, in no time at all, three more children  joined the family, and I decided I would rather spend my time smocking and making heirloom dresses and christening gowns while the children were still young enough to wear them. (They will argue it went on far too long, but that's an issue they can take up with a therapist.)

Also it's not fair to say I never worked on it. There were many Cousins Weekends when I would pull it out and stitch away--of course the next year I was in the same spot...whatever! It was a constant joke among us--so while Chris didn't get a belt, we all had great laughs. (Or maybe they were just laughing at me..)

Seventeen years later the belt was finished--there was great rejoicing from All Saints camp to the shores of the Chesapeake Bay. Since then I have made multiple belts, but that belt--that belt was special.

So back to the story.

In June Christopher borrowed that belt for a funeral. We haven't seen it since.

Yesterday was not a good day--not at all. I woke up with anger and hurt from an incident the day before with my girls. I was trying to write a sermon to be preached that afternoon at the funeral of an amazing man who died far too soon. A man who could make me laugh and who loved me despite my flaws--the greatest of which he believed was my love for Georgia football. I didn't want to write this sermon, preach this sermon, or frankly even be at the funeral. I didn't want to be out of bed...

I dilly dallied around finding all kinds of "important" tasks to do. The hands of the clock moved far too fast--mocking me. My stomach hurt--a pain I've had for weeks. I realized I was truly being Martha from Sunday's gospel--distracted by many things. I realized I was staying busy, bustling around to keep my feelings far away--all my feelings--feelings that have been building all summer and that I have successfully ignored. Before long, despite my valiant attempts to avoid the inevitable, the time came to get in the shower and get ready.

After I finished showering, I opened the shower door and yanked the towel of the towel rack, and then I froze. There was a belt hanging there, but it was not THE belt. I want THE belt--the first one I ever made, the one Chris loved the best, the one that was borrowed without permission, the one that was carelessly lost, the one that in that moment I believed could solve everything if I could just find it. It could take away all the pain of suicides and addictions and mental health and deaths that come too soon. If I just had THE belt it could fix everything--except I can't find it and even if I could I know it can't fix everything or really anything.

With no warning my body began to shake uncontrollably, I slid down the shower wall and began to howl like a trapped animal, sobs racking my body. Yes I was sad, a sadness that feels like it has taken up permanent residence in my soul, but I was also filled with rage--a rage that to be honest, scared me.

I don't know how long I sat there. When I thought I could cry no more, I stood up on still shaking legs, and I remembered the only other time I have cried that hard and with that much pain--it was 9 years ago (The Death and Resurrection of My Family). I smiled a little--smirked may be more like it--as I remembered. Because what I knew was, as painful as that time had been, as hard as it had been, now in its place is peace and love--with the typical family angst thrown in--just being real. Nonetheless, remembering that time and the resurrection that came, gives me hope for the present.

I remembered again as I celebrated the Eucharist at my friend's funeral--as I said the words "Do this in remembrance of me" I felt the hope--the hope of resurrection. Resurrection that comes from even the darkest most hard to reach places.

I'm not going to tie this up with pretty bow--I was still filled with rage and shaking (try putting on mascara with shaking hands) I am still angry, hurt, and scared. No rainbows suddenly appeared over our house. No small woodland animals flitted in to sing and help me dress--instead, there was my daily reading mocking me, a good friend attempting to comfort me but instead laughing at me (and I was okay with that), another good friend being introduced to the real me that I described as "a foul mouth, pearl wearing, monogram everything priest." (She messaged back she already knew that about me and likes me anyway.) I still had to bury my friend--and he will mock me forever as a ribbon from a floral arrangement on the casket has found a permanent home in my prayer book.

There were no rainbows and woodland animals, but there was the presence of God found in texts, and readings, and flowers and Piggly Wiggly peanut butter and babies and people and writing. Oh there is still anger and sorrow, and I desperately wish I knew how long this was going to last.

But nonetheless, there is hope--no matter how small--there is always hope.

And I still really really really want the belt back.