Marie

The Doorway

For the first time she knew fear. Claire stood, frozen in the doorway, the shadows of the hall at her back, the bright light of her parents’ bedroom before her.

Her stomach clenched in a sickening knot.

No-one noticed this ashen-faced older sister. Everyone’s attention remained riveted on the other struggling child. Irene writhed on the bed. Mom tried to still the thrashing arms. Bewildered, clutching her thin blue robe around her, Claire stared in confusion. Irene thrashed, arms and legs tangling in the sheets, shrieking unintelligible sounds, eyes wild, and cheeks burnt crimson.

Dr. Rose crouched next to the bedside, his pyjamas peeking out under the hem of frayed trousers. The familiar whiff of tobacco clung to him, yet Claire barely registered that odour. An uncanny smell overwhelmed it. She would learn its name as she grew older, but this was her first encounter with the scent of approaching death.

Standing by the rumpled bed with a pan of water, Grandma wrung out cloths and passed them to Mom. Grandpa sat in the corner, absorbed in an unspoken appeal. She knew his prayer-face, but she had never seen such concentration. And when had their grandparents arrived? They hadn’t been there at bedtime.

In the earlier evening, her younger sister seemed a little feverish. Red spots began appearing on her belly. Although there was no panic, their Mom decided the little one better sleep in the parents’ room. Grandpa and Grandma must have arrived in the dead of night, so this was serious. Even more disquieting was the look on Dad’s face. While she had not seen it before, she recognized it instinctively. It was fear.

Dad was a working man, with a tradesman’s massive, powerful hands. They were spotless because he scrubbed them raw at the end of each day’s work before he ruffled his girls’ hair, or tenderly touched their Mom’s cheek. He was stronger than anyone she knew, in body and in spirit. He was protection. He was predictability. He was abiding love. He was a refuge. She had sheltered in his shadow.
Now fear had invaded her world, and even in her Dad’s presence there was the spectre of danger. Fear etched itself on his face, deepening the lines that normally creased in smiles. And those huge hands, those steadfast hands. They trembled. The knuckles blanched as he clung to the back of Grandpa’s chair. Her world had shifted. Never again would it be as secure. Until now, death had not touched her innocence, but tonight its darkness hovered nearby. Yet, in the core of her being, something else was altering too.
The girl slipped across the room, tiptoeing over wet, castoff rags and a discarded blanket. She sidled next to her Dad and slid her arm around his waist. His eyes moistened as he released his hold on the chair and knelt down beside her, crushing her in a fierce embrace. He held her and his shaking hands stilled. His breathing became even; his body softened.

It would be decades before she understood it. Still, in that unnerving night she knew something new had emerged. The spark of a peculiar grace was being born in her. Out of the trembling darkness, a strange flood of peace and then a calm flowed through her spirit to his. She had no name for this surprising sensation, but she sensed its unfamiliar power.

The hours stretched long, punctuated with moments of terror. Then, almost unnoticed, the dawn crept in and with it a subtle change in the atmosphere. The girl would eventually learn to recognize it as hope. Dr. Rose stepped back from the bedside, sighing in fatigue. “I think she will make it”.

A lifetime later, the scent of approaching death fills another room. A new generation of family gathers. The parents and grandparents made their own last journeys years ago, yet today their spirits are hovering, unseen, and their shadowy presence is a comfort.
There are two more sisters now. Their faces bear the marks of long lives. They huddle close beside the quiet figure in the hospice bed. They listen for each breath, listen for the silencing they dread.

Younger hands cling to the still fingers of the mother they love. It is so strange to see Irene’s busy hands at rest.

A good man, with a faithful heart and strong hands, rumples the dishevelled hair. Tender fingers stroke the ashen cheek of his mate. His shoulders shudder with suppressed sobs.

The sisters wrap each other in a sad embrace. And again, Claire stands in a doorway, listening to the silence too. Her dear sister hovers again on the threshold of death. But years have passed. Her face is lined with living now, and her aging body slumps in a weary acceptance. This time she watches her sister without fear, only sorrow, cocooned in a calm peace.

The Spirit that quietened her and flowed through her younger body is now a familiar friend. She has come to know that Spirit as refuge, and strength, and safety, and she shelters in that shadow. The Spirit is Abiding Love, and that Love casts out the fear. And the Spirit that is Love whispers, calling her sister home.

Marie Loewen

Picture credit: Image by Willgard Krause from Pixabay