Marjorie

...a time to tear and a time to mend...(Ecc 3:7a)

Before I knew her well
I used to watch from the back pew
mesmerized by the long hair packed tightly into a bun
on the top of her crowned head (i wouldn't know about that crown till later).
She would sway and sing and cry. Cry a lot.
Always with a tissue tightly wiped around her index finger,
a practice she learned from her mommy Mae Rose
who, though shorter and less religious, wipes her tears exactly the same way.

From the back pew I wondered how anyone
so astoundingly beautiful (like all eyes in the room captured kind of beautiful)
but even more beautiful than what can be described in observing social response,
how anyone so poised, wise, esteemed and successful
could cry like that. I knew those tears were real,
I just couldn't imagine where they came from
or how she got lucky enough to learn the art of expressive grief.
I'd just stare in my curiosity, in church, in my own perplexed and frustrated pain,
probably watching with a hope of learning something from her
though my heart was still too hard to admit such need.

I'm no longer in the pews with her, much to my regret
and though we live a country's distance apart, I know now
about those tears. Don't totally know, but know enough.
She is everything I've ever wanted to embody
and learning her stories after years of witnessing her tears
has given me full confidence that only the broken and healed
can wear a spirit-something that beautiful.