It was a long trip but thank goodness, there were no flight delays or bad weather. After dinner and grocery shopping in Reno, it was time to come to the Retreat Center. Jen, the priest who runs the Center was waiting and said she had a surprise–she looked like the cat who swallowed the canary. I had time to unpack and then we went in her car through town and parked where there were obviously docks below us. It was really dark, really clear, really cold. With the help of a flash light we went down rickety stairs, and out on an even more rickety pier. At the end, quite far out in the water, there was some light.

When we got out all the way to the end, there were two women. One was Megan Anderson, a gentle, lovely young woman, recently ordained, who is also involved in church redevelopment projects of the Episcopal Church. I met her a couple of years ago and she now works at the cathedral in Sacramento. The other, her mom. They had candles and chairs and little late night snacks. We visited till it got too cold and marveled at the ways paths cross and throw-away comments bring people together in unexpected ways; how in the end, we are all connected.

By this time it was almost midnight, my time, and I was exhausted. But I could not stop looking up at a night so clear you could see millions of stars and the gossamer cloud we call the Milky Way. It took my breath away. This morning, I enter the big silence.

Even though I have Internet access, I have decided I will only post pictures here while I am on retreat and will not be accessing FaceBook after this posting. I ask for your prayers and you will surely be in mine.

We gathered in the parking lot of First Baptist at 11:15. Not quite fall, but no longer summer, the sun did not make the day warm. One of Sherod’s nieces, a retired Army lieutenant colonol we call Commander Kim, herded us along, Sherod and his sister engaged in another small round of good natured sibling squabbling about where the cars were supposed to be parked.  There were tall, beautiful cousins, one fighting a panic attack, one or two somewhat pouty lips, and folks who awkwardly acknowledged that we are are related to each other, though most days that has no reality whatsover. Uncle Ralph, Juanita’s last surviving sibling, made sure we knew what would be going on and what we were supposed to do.  None of us really listened, though I think everyone got it that this was one of those times we shouldn’t forget. The whole family bunched together on the stairs in front of the Ed Building for what may be the last, most complete family picture of the Mallow-Derryberry’s.

When everyone had finally made sure they had a snapshot in their smartphone, Uncle Ralph shepherded us up the stairs to the dining room where the ladies of First Baptist had spread a Southern feast for us: sweet tea, fried chicken, green beans, squash casserole, potato salad, lima beans, corn casserole, Jello-O Salad with cool whip and mini-marshmallows, fruit salad, rolls, refrigerator pie and chocolate cake.

Visitation happened inside the sanctuary, where Tiffany windows filtered the fall sunlight, dimmed and colored and hushed it as we all considered that under that pall lay Annaw, the last true matriarch of the family.  A dear friend from Fort Lauderdale was there all of a sudden, giving Sherod and me a hug, disorienting and consoling us all at once.  There was an almost steady stream of people who wanted to pay their respects and there were the unctuous funeral directors who kept everything moving smoothly.  I’d never been to a Baptist funeral–more simple than our Episcopal version and just beautiful.  Uncle Ralph gave the Eulogy, Pastor Light the sermon.  A musical performance by a nephew, an opening and closing hymn and then it was over.

Juanita was 13 when the Great Depression hit. Her younger brother Ralph told stories about her.  Their family barely eked out an existence in the worst years of the Depression.  Juanita graduated highschool, attended a business college and then got her first job.  She was paid $10.00 a week as long as the company was able to stay open. When they finally closed, her last ‘paycheck’ was a rusty old typewriter that my sister-in-law still has.  But her very first paycheck she used to put a down payment on a bicycle for her baby brother Ralph. That’s the first story.

By the time Ralph turned twelve, Juanita was working at the movie theater in town, selling tickets.  Children under 12 paid a dime for a ticket.  Ralph was a small 12-year old on the day of his birthday and had thought he could pull off a few more 10 cent tickets.  Except it was Juanita selling them so when it came his turn, she reminded him his ticket now cost 15 cents. He panicked because he didn’t have the extra five cents and he really wanted to see the movie.  Juanita dug in her purse to give him a nickel.  From then on, whenever he went to the movies, there would always be a nickel on the counter for Ralph to buy his ticket.  This one’s the second.

There were all kinds of folks who came through the receiving line to extend their condolences.  Most shook our hands or hugged our necks quickly and moved on.  One stopped when he got to me. He wore a suit and tie, just a regular looking guy.  He told me he had been Juanita’s mailman for decades.  Now, my mother-in-law had lived in the assisted living facility for at least the last 7 years.  Yet the mailman remembered her, how polite she always was to him, how on the really hot days, she had a glass of ice-cold co’cola waiting for him.  He teared up as he told me what a fine lady she had been. This one’s the third.

When Sherod and I first married, Juanita and I had a hard time of it with each other.  In fact, I always felt like an interloper, even at this funeral, aware that Juanita’s joy would have been far more complete if Sherod’s first wife had been there instead of me.  But we found our way with each other and these last stories about her, the courage and dignity with which she accepted the realities of aging, the meticulous care she took to be responsible for her own self and for her family reminded me that steadfast, unglamourous, every day love is hard and stunningly beautiful.  My diminutive, sometimes cranky,mother-in-law was heroic.  Even in death she was heroic, ensuring there was a lovely funeral left paid, planned and programmed for as a celebration of her life and her love that drew the family together, if only for one last time.

I won’t be celebrating at the Sunday services on Sunday. I leave for Birmingham tomorrow and Juanita’s funeral will be on Saturday.  I get back to Fort Lauderdale on Sunday evening, in time to stop and see my girl one last quick time before flying west on Monday.

I knew I had to leave more consecrated bread and wine for the Sunday service than we had and in the Episcopal Church we consecrate sacraments at the Eucharist itself.  This morning, with very little planning, I ended up having Eucharist with about 10 other people, all of us women, all of us Latinas.   I had pulled out the service leaflets for the Eucharist we used to celebrate at the storefront chapel when I first became involved in community ministry.  The Eucharistic Prayer was written by a Latino professor at General Theological Seminary in New York–it is evocative of the landscapes of our countries, it uses language that grates, even in translation, for many who have not come here as immigrants but for those of us who were shaped by that experience, it offers solace, even redemption for some of the harshness of immigration.

Instead of the usual Prayers of the People, everyone offered spontaneous prayers and because we were also remembering Sherod’s mama, we prayed for our own, and for ourselves as mothers.  The very last woman to offer her prayers is a beautiful young woman who’s youngest is known as ‘cachetes’ (cheeks).  His little face is simply delicious and when he breaks into a smile it almost gets lost in chubby, gorgeous cheeks.  At the end of the prayer she looked right at me and said she wanted to become one of the sheep of this sheepfold.  For three years she has attended Sunday services quite faithfully and never come up to communion.  Today she did.  Today most of us wept through most of the Eucharist.

Draw near.  Enter.  Come, then.

There was all kind of busy-ness that followed.  The pets are now with their respective ‘angels of mercy’ who will tend to them until Sherod returns from Selma. There were any number of loose ends to tie up and they all got done.  Since Sunday I’ve been battling yet another round of bronchitis and and this time I keep losing my voice.

Be still.  Wait without words, I am told.

Finished with my work duties, I went to get my girl, Maria for a couple of hours.  Even though she is still struggling, the staff at BARC and I agreed that she and I needed to have some time together and at the end of the visit, when she was safely back at BARC I would tell her about her grandmother’s death.  It didn’t work out quite as I had planned and as we were on I-95, headed back to BARC, it became clear that I needed to tell her.  When I explained that Annaw had died and I was headed to Alabama tomorrow to be with Daddy for the funeral, this was the conversation:

Maria: Is my daddy OK?
Me:  Yes, love, he is OK; he’s a little sad, but glad that Annaw isn’t hurting any more.
Maria: Mami, do you think Annaw already met Marta Isabel? (Marta Isabel is Maria’s birth mother–our girl sometimes refers to her as mom, sometimes by name).
Me:  Oh sweetie, I’m sure she did.
Maria:  What do you think Marta Isabel said to her.
Me: I imagine she wanted to know about you and Annaw was able to tell her what a beautiful young woman you are growing up to be.
Maria:  Mom, you know that Lion King song about dying and they live? The one that made you sad and you cried because of your mom?
Me: I do. You mean They Live in You?
Maria: That one. Can we listen to it?

So we did. Maria helped me find it on my iPhone and we kept driving down the highway, listening.  As it ended, she said, “Now Annaw lives in me too”.  Indeed, my child. Indeed.

Alone this evening, I am packing up for the retreat, giving the house a once-over so Sherod comes back to a nice clean home.  A while ago, I stopped to look at the video I made right before Maria went into BARC.

This is the invitation to start finding my way into the silence.