February 18, 2010 | Mama Smith

a poem

Found on Molly Piper’s blog the other day. By Mr. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Resignation
from The Seaside and the Fireside

There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe’er defended,
But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven’s distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead,–the child of our affection,–
But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild
In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;
And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion
Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,–

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.

We’re healing, slowly but surely. That’s what I have to believe, even when the swirl of selling our house, finding a new one, continuing to mother these two boys and keep my head above the water, threatens to sap every last emotional and physical bit of energy I have left.

Jesus is here in the whirlwind with me, the greatest comfort and healing I have right now, when my brain just doesn’t work. There seems to be no time or energy to fit all the pieces together. So I cling to Psalm 13:5, which I had written and taped up near my bed the week before we found out about Mirabelle, “But (despite all the crap going down in Ps.13:1-4) I trust in your unfailing love.” It doesn’t fail. That’s written all through scripture. That I can claim day after day, when everything seems to scream otherwise.