Embrace Me (46 page)
“No, Mom. Surprisingly enough, this is Shalom's first funeral. There'll be others, I'm sure. It's fitting the first was Dad's.” I turn to face her. “Did you make your peace with him? In the end?”
“Yes, Drew. I did. It wasn't easy.”
“I know.”
“It's too bad he wasn't like this his whole life. It would have been a nice life.”
“I know.”
She adjusts my tie. “You don't match that suit at all.”
I grin. “Yeah. I know.”
She pats my shoulder. “Let's go. The musicians are setting up.”
Some folks from the orchestra at Port of Peace Assemblies volunteered to help us consign my father to the ground. Charmaine's going to sing.
We've set up chairs in the main room. The funeral home delivered my father's body and now it's time to begin.
The casket remains closed, and the neighborhood folks file by and pay their respects. Somehow Charles Parrish made an impression all his own on them with his faithful appearances in the main room, lending a hand when he felt strong enough.
Bobby cries louder than anybody. My father reached out and gave Bobby a growing dignity. He made sure his lawyer left Bobby enough for a college education. In fact, that's what his estate's going for, a college fund for the kids here in the neighborhood. His idea. Not mine.
Finally, it begins.
Jessica leads us in the prayers. Justin in Communion. I give the eulogy, talking about his months at Shalom, realizing afresh that it was all we really had together over the course of my lifetime.
But it is enough. It has to be and it is.
Father Brian stands in the back, praying. He always says that's 90 percent of his job.
Charmaine sings another song at the gravesite. “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” One of her signature numbers.
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me. I sing because I'm happy. I sing because I'm free.
When the Son sets you free, you shall be free indeed.
I throw the first shovelful of dirt on the casket. Monica follows suit. We file away from the cemetery.
A flash of magenta scours the corner of my eye. I turn my head.
“Valentine!”
I run in her direction, dodging gravestones, jumping over markers.
She does the same.
“Augustine!”
She slams her body into mine, our arms snapping around each other.
I hold her to me, embracing her as tightly as a mother grasps her hurting child. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”
Her eyes shine. “I know. It's done, Augustine. It's done.”
My father is in the ground, and I understand the final piece, why he came to me. We need forgiveness so badly. Maybe it's selfish to even ask, but in the receiving we are made free.
I will see my father again, when we are all raised as He was raised.
But the true miracle of the resurrection wasn't so much the raising. Is something like that too hard for the God who made the universe? The true miracle is in the forgiving. And though we are bruised and burned, blind and broken, we are forgiven.
Charles Parrish made terrible choices for many years, seismic repercussions swallowing us into its circle. I repeated those choices in my own fashion.
But all is forgiven now. All is forgiven.
AUGUSTINE: ONE YEAR LATER
Val's bed is set up in the women's bunkroom these days. She made her formal vows, same as mine, a few months ago. Something good always bubbles in the kitchen, and word's gotten around that if you need food, Shalom's the place.
“Good morning, Mother Superior. What's for breakfast?” I ask.
“Oatmeal with cinnamon and brown sugar.”
“Sounds like a plan. Do you know how blessed we are to have you here?”
“Hey, people need to eat. That's all I know.”
“I thought maybe we'd get some more folks who wanted to join in on our work.”
She crosses her forefingers like I'm a vampire. “That's enough of that, Gus.”
She's right.
“And when did numbers replace mission? During the Great Awakening or Albert Finney or something? I have no idea.”
“Uh, Val. It's Charles Finney.”
“Whatever.” She spoons me up a bowl of oatmeal. Smiles. I can tell because her eyes crinkle. She still won't get rid of the scarf.
One day one of the kids said, “Hey, lady, how come you look like that? It's kinda weird.”
“Well, looks don't mean everything,” Val replied with her characteristic snap.
That sure is the truth.
“Time for morning prayers, Gus. Where you heading?”
“Oh, just walking around the neighborhood, I guess.”
“Good. That's very good.” She turns her back on me and slides the pot of oatmeal into the refrigerator someone donated a few weeks ago.
Yes, it is. “If you want me to pray with you, we can walk together.” I concentrate on the oatmeal as she wipes down the sink.
Side-by-side we enter the gathering room, sit on the sofa, and pick up our prayer books.
I look up. Her face is bare. “Did you take your scarf off in the kitchen, Val? Want me to go get it for you?”
“Nah. I think I'll give my face a trial run inside here.”
“That's more than okay with me.”
She opens to the day's prayers. “I've known that for a while, Gus.”
And the morning sun shines upon us. Just as we are.
T
hankfully, these days there are other more humane and dignified ways to provide for the disabled, so you'd have a hard time finding human oddities like Valentine and Lella on display. Please forgive me a little stretching of the way things are in order to explore the metaphor of Christ's Body, His Church, in a deeper way.
M
any thanks:
To Ami and Allen and the entire fiction gang at Thomas NelsonâI appreciate you all for extending the freedom I needed to write this unusual tale. Your support and attention warms my soul. To Erinâyou know what to do! To Rachelleâwow, this one provided you with heavier work. But let's hope it was worth it in the end.
To Phil Smithâfor the book and for letting me know I wasn't the only person with an interest in human marvels.
To my friends and family, especially Will, Ty, Jake, and GwynnieâI love and appreciate you all. And Will, thanks for helping me with the male voice.
To the people who have shown me the life of New Monasticism, this book could definitely have never been written without you. Particularly the people in my own intentional community, Communality, as well as those in The Simple Way.
To my readersâthanks for your love and support over the years! Please e-mail me at [email protected]
And to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, who made and makes us all.