Im memoriam
This is going to be a long post, so beware, my friends. *weak grin*.
Last weekend, my husband and I got a copy of Big Fish, a Tim Burton-movie. We wanted to see it as long as it was still in the theatres, but like so often, we somehow didn’t manage. But now we watched it on DVD, and it was a beautiful, wondrous, astonishing marvel of a movie. I don’t want to spoil too much (in case you didn’t see it yet and still want to), but the main theme is the difficult relationship between a son and his father, Edward Bloom. The son is a journalist, used to facts, and the father is a great storyteller. When Edward Bloom is dying of cancer, his son finally wants to learn the truth about his Dad’s life; his father always told him stories, one more unbelievable than the next, and the young man feels somehow betrayed. The end of the story was deeply moving, and as during half of the movie, I thought of my own father.
My father died in 1995, of a long lasting heart disease. He’d had two surgeries; the first to give him two new heart valves (from a pig), and the second, 1990, to replace them, because they had proved to be not as resistant as the doctors thought first. After the second surgery, he had a few good years, but then the worn out, exhausted heart refused it’s service, and the suffering began. He became weaker and weaker, he couldn’t walk long distances any more (and he was a passionate wanderer), and, as a result of his malady, he became very depressed. My father was a Christian, and he had often comforted others, but this time there was no comfort, and he simply didn’t understand what was happening to him. He didn’t talk about it very much (I guess he felt somewhat ashamed), but I strongly believe he was somehow convinced that the God he had loved his whole life had forsaken him.
In early summer 1995 he was at the hospital and the doctors searched for new medicine to drain the water from his body that made him breathless and weak, and one morning (June, the 6th) they found him, sitting beside the table in his sickroom, his head tilted back. He must have died only minutes after my mother had left. She called me a few hours later when I was feeding Julian (my first child), and she cried violently; I don’t remember what exactly she said, but I’ll never forget that she asked me if I was sure that he was with God now… he had been so angry, so disappointed, he had doubted his whole faith so much in the last few weeks of his life. I tried my best to reassure her, fighting my own tears. When I hung up, I called my husband, asking him to come home, nurmb and shocked by what felt like the end of my personal world to me.
My father had been the warmth and the anchor in my life, my friend, my mentor and my teacher. He was a walking encyclopedia; most I know about art and painting and the world of classical music, I know from him. He took singing lessons and was a very good baritone; we sang in a well-known choir in my hometown, and I remember times when we drove home and he sang the baritone part as a counterpoint to my soprano. In an age where other kids discover pop music he showed me the paintings of Balthasar Neumann and antique roman statues, and he had the rare gift to make all that stuff wildly interesting. We spent long, mild summer evenings, sitting on our balcony at home; he smoked his pipe and we talked about everything; the smell of a good sherry- or vanilla-flavored tobacco still sometimes brings tears to my eyes today. He had a wonderful humor and was a great storyteller (like Edward Bloom from Big Fish), he was a brilliant cook and cared for his big garden with the same love as Sam Gamgee.
After his death I wanted to write a story for my mother to give her peace and comfort; a story about what happened when my father died, but for several reasons I never managed even to begin. Time went by and I forgot about it. Then, last weekend, I saw Big Fish, and with a sudden shock I realized that I had missed something very important, and I also realized that my mother is 71 years old now, and that I should finally face that tale before it was too late.
So I put all household stuff and duties aside, sat down and began to write.
(I guess I should insert one of those warnings here cpsings4him always uses when she posts something that contains “christian stuff”. Okay - you are warned.)
Every tear from their eyes
By Mona
He was so tired.
He sat on the chair beside the ridiculously small table of the sickroom, staring down at the tray and at a bowl of soup (a thick soup, somewhat slimy on his tongue, without taste, with nearly no salt or spice). He had complained a little, and his wife had given him the smile that these days barely reached her eyes.
He took the spoon and laid it down again. He remembered times when he stood in his beloved old kitchen, the apron tied around his waist, slicing onions, potatoes and leek, chopping rosy bacon and carefully pouring cream and white wine into the pot, and when the rich, strong aroma of his cooking filled his nose and made him smile.
Another time. Another man.
Only a few moments ago she had left; she had come to the hospital in the early morning, like every day, to bring him a new pajama and a fresh sweater. His brother would visit him this afternoon. Normally he would have looked forward to that visit; Gerhard always made him laugh when they met, and he desperately needed a laugh in this sterile white place where he was surrounded by illness and couldn’t escape his own malady. He hadn't slept well at all last night; he had endlessly walked the empty, silent corridors, wrapped in his old dressing gown and staring at his reflection in the big, black windows.
The sun painted golden circles on the duvet and pillow; he saw the book on the nightstand, but felt too exhausted to read, too drained to concentrate on the fate of a fictional hero when he was barely able to endure his own.
He was so tired. So unbelievably tired.
He closed his eyes and his head sank back.
******
The scent of spring grass filled his nose, strong and sweet as if freshly mown. He felt the ground beneath his back.
He sat up and opened his eyes.
Green, rolling hills, stretching to the horizon. Here and there he saw groves of oak trees, birch and beech, and the meadow was strewn with yarrow, sorrel, clover and bluebells. In the distance he saw the hazy, silver line of high mountains; he was reminded of the Alps he knew from so many holidays with his family in Austria. Was this Austria? And why was he here - was this a dream?
The sky was of a translucent blue, and the sunlight was a warm and soothing caress on his face. He gazed down and saw chamomile, blooming right beside his hand. He plucked it and looked at the blossom full of wonder; the pistil was sunny yellow, every single petal gloriously white. It seemed to him he had never seen such a beautiful flower in his entire life.
He inhaled the mild air, and then he noticed something else. The pain was gone, the bitter tightness in his chest he had grown used to in the last few years. He was able to breath freely, and this alone was more of a miracle than he was able to understand.
He rose to his feet, slowly and with a certain distrust. But he felt … well, he felt good, better than in years. Real good. He stretched his legs and arms, and he saw that they were not swollen anymore. The water bloating his flesh in spite if all the medicine the doctors had been trying, the water that made him clumsy and breathless… it was gone. He examined himself and all he found was the body of a man in his middle age, with well defined muscles in his calves and the strong arms and calloused hands of a passionate gardener.
Suddenly he wanted to sing - not an aria, but perhaps a wandering song. He wanted to take his old walking stick from the place behind the door, he wanted to run down the soft hill and up the next, he wanted to jump and shout and feel the wind in his hair while his legs bore him wherever he wanted to go.
“Good morning, Peter.”
He winced and turned his head.
Someone stood beside him, a man. He was taller than him, clad in deep green suede breeches, a woolen jacket and instead of the sturdy leather boots Peter had expected he wore no shoes at all. His feet were naked. The hair of the stranger was of a sun-bleached hazelnut brown, and his bright blue eyes were surrounded by wrinkles that deepened when he smiled at him.
„Good… good morning.”
“Do you like it here, Peter?”
He wasn’t sure what to say. The beautiful landscape, the blue sky, the fragrance of grass, herbs and flowers… the whole dreamlike situation suddenly made his head spin.
“It.. it is beautiful. Very beautiful. And I feel better than for a very long time.” He hesitated, then his eyes met the gaze of the stranger again. „I was very ill, you know. My heart…”
„I know, Peter.”
The stranger smiled at him once more, and this smile was like an embrace. To his surprise Peter felt unshed tears burning in his eyes. His mouth opened against his own will and he heard himself speak.
„I didn’t know why all this happened to me. I felt so weak, it almost was as if this…” he pointed to his chest, „… as if this wasn’t my body anymore. My heart betrayed me. I could hear it’s unruly, stumbling beat, and my steps grew slower and clumsier every day. My breath had the sound of an old, creaking bellow. I was… I was so angry with God. I thought he didn’t love me anymore. I thought he… he didn’t care.”
His sudden, unexpected confession mortified him. The stranger kept his silence. He looked at him, his face quiet and attentive.
„I have spent my whole life with God, and in God’s service.” Peter continued. „I have done my best to be a good son, a good husband, a good father. I have a wonderful wife and two children; they are grown up now, my daughter is married and has a son herself. He’s a sweet baby.”
He sighed.
„But now… now I don’t know if I have succeeded at all. Perhaps… perhaps God is angry. Perhaps he wants to punish me.” He hesitated, then he spoke the unspeakable, with a shaking, whispering voice. “Perhaps I should be punished.”
„Tell me again how you feel, Peter.” the stranger said.
„Why…”
“Just tell me.”
„I… I feel good. I feel as if I’ve never been ill in my whole life. I feel strong. Healthy. Before you came, I wanted to break into a run, I wanted to reach the horizon on nothing but my two legs and I knew I would manage it. I… I feel so young.”
„Aha.” The stranger nodded. „And… do you feel punished?”
Peter stared at him. Then he suddenly laughed, and strangely enough it felt like crying, an emotion somewhere between overwhelming joy and deep sorrow, intense and strong. The face of the man blurred in front of his eyes, and he finally knew it even though he’d never seen it before.
It was not the delicate face of the linden wood carvings by Tilman Riemenschneider, not the pale features, biased in the agony of death, painted by Matthias Grünewald, not the marble-white perfection of the man lying in the lap of Michelangelo’s Pietà in Rome. Here was the model for all those masterpieces, and he was real and alive.
„No…” he replied. „I don’t feel punished. I feel… loved.”
And then strong arms gathered him into a tight embrace, and he buried his face against the chest before him like a child and started to sob.
„You are right.” said a soft voice above his head. „I love you, Peter. I always did.”
He raised his head; he felt the touch of gentle fingers on his skin, wiping away the tears… and the indefinite peace, finally settling down in his healed heart.
THE END
Last weekend, my husband and I got a copy of Big Fish, a Tim Burton-movie. We wanted to see it as long as it was still in the theatres, but like so often, we somehow didn’t manage. But now we watched it on DVD, and it was a beautiful, wondrous, astonishing marvel of a movie. I don’t want to spoil too much (in case you didn’t see it yet and still want to), but the main theme is the difficult relationship between a son and his father, Edward Bloom. The son is a journalist, used to facts, and the father is a great storyteller. When Edward Bloom is dying of cancer, his son finally wants to learn the truth about his Dad’s life; his father always told him stories, one more unbelievable than the next, and the young man feels somehow betrayed. The end of the story was deeply moving, and as during half of the movie, I thought of my own father.
My father died in 1995, of a long lasting heart disease. He’d had two surgeries; the first to give him two new heart valves (from a pig), and the second, 1990, to replace them, because they had proved to be not as resistant as the doctors thought first. After the second surgery, he had a few good years, but then the worn out, exhausted heart refused it’s service, and the suffering began. He became weaker and weaker, he couldn’t walk long distances any more (and he was a passionate wanderer), and, as a result of his malady, he became very depressed. My father was a Christian, and he had often comforted others, but this time there was no comfort, and he simply didn’t understand what was happening to him. He didn’t talk about it very much (I guess he felt somewhat ashamed), but I strongly believe he was somehow convinced that the God he had loved his whole life had forsaken him.
In early summer 1995 he was at the hospital and the doctors searched for new medicine to drain the water from his body that made him breathless and weak, and one morning (June, the 6th) they found him, sitting beside the table in his sickroom, his head tilted back. He must have died only minutes after my mother had left. She called me a few hours later when I was feeding Julian (my first child), and she cried violently; I don’t remember what exactly she said, but I’ll never forget that she asked me if I was sure that he was with God now… he had been so angry, so disappointed, he had doubted his whole faith so much in the last few weeks of his life. I tried my best to reassure her, fighting my own tears. When I hung up, I called my husband, asking him to come home, nurmb and shocked by what felt like the end of my personal world to me.
My father had been the warmth and the anchor in my life, my friend, my mentor and my teacher. He was a walking encyclopedia; most I know about art and painting and the world of classical music, I know from him. He took singing lessons and was a very good baritone; we sang in a well-known choir in my hometown, and I remember times when we drove home and he sang the baritone part as a counterpoint to my soprano. In an age where other kids discover pop music he showed me the paintings of Balthasar Neumann and antique roman statues, and he had the rare gift to make all that stuff wildly interesting. We spent long, mild summer evenings, sitting on our balcony at home; he smoked his pipe and we talked about everything; the smell of a good sherry- or vanilla-flavored tobacco still sometimes brings tears to my eyes today. He had a wonderful humor and was a great storyteller (like Edward Bloom from Big Fish), he was a brilliant cook and cared for his big garden with the same love as Sam Gamgee.
After his death I wanted to write a story for my mother to give her peace and comfort; a story about what happened when my father died, but for several reasons I never managed even to begin. Time went by and I forgot about it. Then, last weekend, I saw Big Fish, and with a sudden shock I realized that I had missed something very important, and I also realized that my mother is 71 years old now, and that I should finally face that tale before it was too late.
So I put all household stuff and duties aside, sat down and began to write.
(I guess I should insert one of those warnings here cpsings4him always uses when she posts something that contains “christian stuff”. Okay - you are warned.)
Every tear from their eyes
By Mona
He was so tired.
He sat on the chair beside the ridiculously small table of the sickroom, staring down at the tray and at a bowl of soup (a thick soup, somewhat slimy on his tongue, without taste, with nearly no salt or spice). He had complained a little, and his wife had given him the smile that these days barely reached her eyes.
He took the spoon and laid it down again. He remembered times when he stood in his beloved old kitchen, the apron tied around his waist, slicing onions, potatoes and leek, chopping rosy bacon and carefully pouring cream and white wine into the pot, and when the rich, strong aroma of his cooking filled his nose and made him smile.
Another time. Another man.
Only a few moments ago she had left; she had come to the hospital in the early morning, like every day, to bring him a new pajama and a fresh sweater. His brother would visit him this afternoon. Normally he would have looked forward to that visit; Gerhard always made him laugh when they met, and he desperately needed a laugh in this sterile white place where he was surrounded by illness and couldn’t escape his own malady. He hadn't slept well at all last night; he had endlessly walked the empty, silent corridors, wrapped in his old dressing gown and staring at his reflection in the big, black windows.
The sun painted golden circles on the duvet and pillow; he saw the book on the nightstand, but felt too exhausted to read, too drained to concentrate on the fate of a fictional hero when he was barely able to endure his own.
He was so tired. So unbelievably tired.
He closed his eyes and his head sank back.
******
The scent of spring grass filled his nose, strong and sweet as if freshly mown. He felt the ground beneath his back.
He sat up and opened his eyes.
Green, rolling hills, stretching to the horizon. Here and there he saw groves of oak trees, birch and beech, and the meadow was strewn with yarrow, sorrel, clover and bluebells. In the distance he saw the hazy, silver line of high mountains; he was reminded of the Alps he knew from so many holidays with his family in Austria. Was this Austria? And why was he here - was this a dream?
The sky was of a translucent blue, and the sunlight was a warm and soothing caress on his face. He gazed down and saw chamomile, blooming right beside his hand. He plucked it and looked at the blossom full of wonder; the pistil was sunny yellow, every single petal gloriously white. It seemed to him he had never seen such a beautiful flower in his entire life.
He inhaled the mild air, and then he noticed something else. The pain was gone, the bitter tightness in his chest he had grown used to in the last few years. He was able to breath freely, and this alone was more of a miracle than he was able to understand.
He rose to his feet, slowly and with a certain distrust. But he felt … well, he felt good, better than in years. Real good. He stretched his legs and arms, and he saw that they were not swollen anymore. The water bloating his flesh in spite if all the medicine the doctors had been trying, the water that made him clumsy and breathless… it was gone. He examined himself and all he found was the body of a man in his middle age, with well defined muscles in his calves and the strong arms and calloused hands of a passionate gardener.
Suddenly he wanted to sing - not an aria, but perhaps a wandering song. He wanted to take his old walking stick from the place behind the door, he wanted to run down the soft hill and up the next, he wanted to jump and shout and feel the wind in his hair while his legs bore him wherever he wanted to go.
“Good morning, Peter.”
He winced and turned his head.
Someone stood beside him, a man. He was taller than him, clad in deep green suede breeches, a woolen jacket and instead of the sturdy leather boots Peter had expected he wore no shoes at all. His feet were naked. The hair of the stranger was of a sun-bleached hazelnut brown, and his bright blue eyes were surrounded by wrinkles that deepened when he smiled at him.
„Good… good morning.”
“Do you like it here, Peter?”
He wasn’t sure what to say. The beautiful landscape, the blue sky, the fragrance of grass, herbs and flowers… the whole dreamlike situation suddenly made his head spin.
“It.. it is beautiful. Very beautiful. And I feel better than for a very long time.” He hesitated, then his eyes met the gaze of the stranger again. „I was very ill, you know. My heart…”
„I know, Peter.”
The stranger smiled at him once more, and this smile was like an embrace. To his surprise Peter felt unshed tears burning in his eyes. His mouth opened against his own will and he heard himself speak.
„I didn’t know why all this happened to me. I felt so weak, it almost was as if this…” he pointed to his chest, „… as if this wasn’t my body anymore. My heart betrayed me. I could hear it’s unruly, stumbling beat, and my steps grew slower and clumsier every day. My breath had the sound of an old, creaking bellow. I was… I was so angry with God. I thought he didn’t love me anymore. I thought he… he didn’t care.”
His sudden, unexpected confession mortified him. The stranger kept his silence. He looked at him, his face quiet and attentive.
„I have spent my whole life with God, and in God’s service.” Peter continued. „I have done my best to be a good son, a good husband, a good father. I have a wonderful wife and two children; they are grown up now, my daughter is married and has a son herself. He’s a sweet baby.”
He sighed.
„But now… now I don’t know if I have succeeded at all. Perhaps… perhaps God is angry. Perhaps he wants to punish me.” He hesitated, then he spoke the unspeakable, with a shaking, whispering voice. “Perhaps I should be punished.”
„Tell me again how you feel, Peter.” the stranger said.
„Why…”
“Just tell me.”
„I… I feel good. I feel as if I’ve never been ill in my whole life. I feel strong. Healthy. Before you came, I wanted to break into a run, I wanted to reach the horizon on nothing but my two legs and I knew I would manage it. I… I feel so young.”
„Aha.” The stranger nodded. „And… do you feel punished?”
Peter stared at him. Then he suddenly laughed, and strangely enough it felt like crying, an emotion somewhere between overwhelming joy and deep sorrow, intense and strong. The face of the man blurred in front of his eyes, and he finally knew it even though he’d never seen it before.
It was not the delicate face of the linden wood carvings by Tilman Riemenschneider, not the pale features, biased in the agony of death, painted by Matthias Grünewald, not the marble-white perfection of the man lying in the lap of Michelangelo’s Pietà in Rome. Here was the model for all those masterpieces, and he was real and alive.
„No…” he replied. „I don’t feel punished. I feel… loved.”
And then strong arms gathered him into a tight embrace, and he buried his face against the chest before him like a child and started to sob.
„You are right.” said a soft voice above his head. „I love you, Peter. I always did.”
He raised his head; he felt the touch of gentle fingers on his skin, wiping away the tears… and the indefinite peace, finally settling down in his healed heart.
THE END