Abou Ben Adhem
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:-
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?"-The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
-James Henry Leigh Hunt
Mom sent me a link to this today, with the note, "This was mom's favorite poem. I think she left this part of herself in you."
I have my grandmother's journal, because I'm the one who gave it to her. I was ten. She seemed stressed out, and writing in my journal was so cathartic to me, so I spent $2.98 and bought a blank book with a velvety cover and printed off a message, "To Grandma, lots of hugs and kisses." So when she passed away, and her house and everything in it was to be auctioned off, someone (I can't remember if it was my mom or one of my aunts) found the journal and gave it back to me, and it's always had a place of honor on my bookshelf.
The journal, written in her barely-legible pseudo-cursive, starts with such musings as "Thought about doing the kitchen windows and curtains but didn't really want to. Maybe tomorrow." "Linda came and took me for groceries today." Some entries simply read "forgot to write."
She had the journal for four years. In the last year, they found her brain tumor. Her writing gets even harder to read then, but it says so much more. It was strange that Mom sent me that poem today, because the last legible entry was on Easter (the actual last was only half a sentence that ended mid-word) and was exactly what I'd imagined when I gave her the journal-- she'd spent the last several entries spilling her worries and despair about family holidays, how the ones so vocal about having a big to-do were the ones who were never happy on the occasion in question.
That was where the journal ended (actually it ended with "Go tomorrow to the lin"). But, probably earlier, she'd written something in the back that I only discovered today. One side of the last page was poetry, the other prose. She wrote both and they both break my heart a little, but mostly I'm really happy, fifteen years later, that I'd given her this outlet. It's clear by the handwriting that this last page was written before her illness, before she realized the immanence of her death, when she likely still imagined the journal to be hers alone for years to come. It feels so honest, and raw, and painfully beautiful, and a side of my grandmother that only I get to see.
The poem that Mom sent me reminded me-- if Grandma was a Christian, she was very, very quiet about it. I consider myself an atheist, but I don't think it's a bad idea to follow some of the teachings of Jesus. I just don't put much stock in the God thing, or the Son of God thing. And I don't think one has to have religion to be moral, or good, or kind. Grandma was, as I knew her, a Good Person, which I think is way more important than identifying as Religious.
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:-
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?"-The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
-James Henry Leigh Hunt
Mom sent me a link to this today, with the note, "This was mom's favorite poem. I think she left this part of herself in you."
I have my grandmother's journal, because I'm the one who gave it to her. I was ten. She seemed stressed out, and writing in my journal was so cathartic to me, so I spent $2.98 and bought a blank book with a velvety cover and printed off a message, "To Grandma, lots of hugs and kisses." So when she passed away, and her house and everything in it was to be auctioned off, someone (I can't remember if it was my mom or one of my aunts) found the journal and gave it back to me, and it's always had a place of honor on my bookshelf.
The journal, written in her barely-legible pseudo-cursive, starts with such musings as "Thought about doing the kitchen windows and curtains but didn't really want to. Maybe tomorrow." "Linda came and took me for groceries today." Some entries simply read "forgot to write."
She had the journal for four years. In the last year, they found her brain tumor. Her writing gets even harder to read then, but it says so much more. It was strange that Mom sent me that poem today, because the last legible entry was on Easter (the actual last was only half a sentence that ended mid-word) and was exactly what I'd imagined when I gave her the journal-- she'd spent the last several entries spilling her worries and despair about family holidays, how the ones so vocal about having a big to-do were the ones who were never happy on the occasion in question.
That was where the journal ended (actually it ended with "Go tomorrow to the lin"). But, probably earlier, she'd written something in the back that I only discovered today. One side of the last page was poetry, the other prose. She wrote both and they both break my heart a little, but mostly I'm really happy, fifteen years later, that I'd given her this outlet. It's clear by the handwriting that this last page was written before her illness, before she realized the immanence of her death, when she likely still imagined the journal to be hers alone for years to come. It feels so honest, and raw, and painfully beautiful, and a side of my grandmother that only I get to see.
The poem that Mom sent me reminded me-- if Grandma was a Christian, she was very, very quiet about it. I consider myself an atheist, but I don't think it's a bad idea to follow some of the teachings of Jesus. I just don't put much stock in the God thing, or the Son of God thing. And I don't think one has to have religion to be moral, or good, or kind. Grandma was, as I knew her, a Good Person, which I think is way more important than identifying as Religious.