The Aching Place

Where do you write?

No, I'm not asking if you have a favorite table at your local coffee shop or prefer the privacy of your home. I mean, where -- inside you -- does your writing originate? Are you a thinker or a feeler? I suppose I'm a little of both, but there's one place for me that -- more than any other -- demands and inspires words. Sometimes I get there by way of profound beauty and sometimes by broken heart. Sometimes in imagination and sometimes in real life. In some ways it's a bit like Brigadoon, rising from the mist, magical and mysterious, not to be found unless you're in the right place at the right time. Then suddenly you're in its midst and there's no denying it. You must either shut your soul or stand and answer.

I call it the aching place.

Last weekend we welcomed a new year. All over the world, hour by hour, time zone after time zone, people partied and dreamed. Couples got engaged. Resolutions were made. Though some souls no doubt grieved and despaired, for many Expectation sang a song of new beginnings, and Hope heard and danced in the streets.

I've mentioned before that my mom is undergoing cancer treatments and also losing her memory. George, Jacob, and I spent a quiet New Year's weekend with her and my dad. We ate a nice dinner, then gathered in the living room. No fireworks. No party. Just an intimate, familiar nearness. My parents. My husband. My remade son. Me. Entangled roots going deep into soil that has tasted intoxicating rains and endured bitter drought and never once found God unfaithful.

We didn't even attempt midnight our time, but Mom managed to stay awake until the ball dropped in Times Square, snuggled next to my father on the couch, blankets tucked around her. It was a temperate evening, and a cozy fire warmed the hearth, but she's always cold these days. And sleepy. Her eyes tell a story of life long-lived and full -- not fearful or frantic, but tired. Accepting.

I welcomed the arrival of the infant year with my parents. I watched my father assist my mother in the bathroom. Tender. Patient. I heard him answer the same questions over and over, his voice gentle and soothing. He sorted her pills and washed her clothes, bought the groceries and prepared her meals. I watched him serve her lunch, then place his arm around her shoulder and give thanks. Genuine thanks. For their lives and their blessings. I watched, and the ground was holy, and the ache was sublime.

A+. That's the grade she gives herself when she completes a crossword puzzle. A+ with little celebration lines shooting out all around it. All my life, words were hers. Song lyrics. Foreign languages. She still sings along with jazz standards or corrects my dad if he mispronounces a French word. But even the words are deserting her now. A+. And that sunburst of lines. Dad showed me, smiling. My biggest regret from the weekend is that I didn't take a picture of that A+.

Sunday afternoon Luke and Sarah came over, Sarah's belly blossoming with Naomi. They just returned from Japan and are preparing to go back as long-term missionaries, but they have some decisions to make first. Should he finish seminary? Should they go with the agency that already accepted them or take more of a "tent-maker" approach? Their presence and their conversation exploded with potential, purpose, and promise.

"Naomi. That's a strange name," Mom had said the day before when I told her what they plan to call her second great grandchild.

"It's from the Bible," I said. "It means 'Pleasant.'" Then I told her the story of Ruth, the devoted daughter-in-law whose loyalty to Naomi and Naomi's God earned her a spot in the lineage of Christ. I quoted the passage so often used in marriage ceremonies, and when I said, "Your God will be my God," her eyes widened, and when I said, "Where you die, I will die," she wept for the sweetness.

Sarah can feel Naomi moving now -- that happy hidden dance reserved for those who can hear the music of a mother's heartbeat. I danced that dance long ago in a youthful womb where waters whooshed their accompaniment to the pulsing cadence of a wild-ish heart. Her hair was long and thick and almost black then. Her lips were full and red. And she loved to laugh.

There's a part of me that wishes I could turn back time or at least slow the inevitable, but then I think of Naomi, becoming herself, her own little heart growing stronger and stronger in anticipation of the day her Maker will call her forth to breathe this temporary air, to live the story He has already written in His book, and to learn how to dance to the rhythm of His heart. 

"Where do you live?"

She asked me that question at least three times, and I always gave her the same answer. But if she asked me again right now, my answer would be different. Where do I live? It's hard to explain. Sometimes I get there by way of profound beauty and sometimes by broken heart. Sometimes in imagination and sometimes in life. It's not always an easy place to be, but I know I mustn't shut my soul. I must stand and answer, because -- for me -- more than any other, this place demands and inspires words.

I call it the aching place.

 

 

Jeanne Damoff wishes you well, wherever you live.

 

Comments

[Mary DeMuth]

I'm so sorry you're going through the aching place right now. Lord, be with Jeanne and her family, but be particularly with her mom. Whisper Your sweet love into her ears. Help her know you in the slipping. Amen.

[LaJoyce Shrom]

Jeanne, thank you for the beautiful blog about your family. Your family are in my prayers for healing,peace and comfort.

[Anne Mateer]

Ah, Jeanne. I love your heart and your words. Beautiful.

[Julie]

This touched me deeply. Thank you for sharing.

[Mama Zen]

Beautifully written.

[katdish]

Oh, Jeanne. Words escape me right now. Thank you for sharing your aching place with us. You are a beautiful soul. Love you.

[karen]

Jeanne, as the mother of daughters I weep over the sweetness of your story. Thank you.

[Nicole]

Been there, Jeanne. It hurts. Who can capture the grand scheme of it all? Jesus knows. Love to you and yours.

[Patricia (Pollywog Creek)]

Jeanne, I know some of where you live - your heart and ache and the holy sweetness that runs through them both - and your words have captured that place beautifully. May you cling tightly to the Lord of all comfort in both the joy and the bittersweet, the embracing and the letting go. I love you, sweet Jeanne. You are in my thoughts and prayers.

[deb @ talk at the table]

well, I'm mostly silenced.
and through tears
send love.

[Heather]

Thank you for sharing this, for calling out beauty in the midst of both tragedy and joy, sorrow and celebration.

[Jeanne Damoff]

Thank you with all my heart, kind friends. I like receiving comments as much as anyone, but much more dear than mere comments are your sincere words of friendship, love, and prayer.

Much love,
Jeanne

P.S. Amen and amen, Mary. Lord, hear our prayer.

[Miz Melly]

Oh Jeanne, you have such a tender mother heart. I pray the Lord protects it and keeps it soft as you live in the aching place for this time.

much love
Melanie

[Vicki]

Thank you for sharing from your aching place. It touched my soul. May the Lord bless you and keep you, make His Face shine upon you, and give you peace.

[Grace]

Beautiful, Mom. You've seriously got a gift... you've taken us all to that "magical and mysterious" place with you through the art and honesty of your words. Thank you!

[ldamoff]

Well. You made me cry.

love,
luke

[Madison Richards]

Life doesn't ask us what we want. Sometimes it comes flooding in on a rush of waves and other times it rides on the silence of a tender moment. You've both lived through and captured both.

Your grace and strength give me hope.

[GAD]

I, too, cried. Multiple times.
gG

[Angelika]

Dear Jeanne, thank you for sharing your heart. It touched mine deeply. Angelika