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THE COMFORT QUILT
THE COMFORT QUILT
“What value has compassion that does not take its object in its arms?”
Antoine Saint-Exupery The Wisdom of the Sands, 1948
UNDER FULL U.S. COPYRIGHT. NO PART MAY BE COPIED OR REPRODUCED-REBECCA TACOSA GRAY
The woman walked into St. Anthony’s Church, carrying a colorful little bundle in a thick plastic bag and a thin book. A children’s book. Next to the center aisle, she stopped at the octagonal marble fountain and crossed herself with holy water and continued into the church, looking at the cross on the left side. It used to hang in the center, but they had changed the church dramatically in later years to a more modern look. It was beautiful. She stopped in the cross aisle looking at Jesus on the Cross, and then turned and walked left to a marble bench on the opposite side. It was lovely, and a carved Jesus sat on the right, hand light on the bench, looking as if he was ready to have a conversation with anyone who happened to sit next to him. The woman sat down, placed the book between her and Jesus, and quietly put the bag on her lap, touching it softly. She sat for a while, looking at the cross. Tears ran down her face. She opened the bag and pulled out a quilt, a very beautiful, although a bit tattered, quilt. It looked as if it had been used many times, and the squares, like all quilts, held their special fabrics. She touched one in particular, and traced the pattern of planes, cars. Her voice started out low, soft. “This square was part of my son, Carl’s, first pajama set when he was three. I remember him running through the house at night and into his Daddy’s arms. There was always a jump and a hug, side to side.” She touched another, close by. Checks, Dark blue, little green pinstripes. “This,” her tears became thicker, “was part of William’s set. A little older, I think. I can’t remember, now. But he always demanded these pajamas. I think they were mostly comfort for him. I have a little blanket in the same colors, put away. He used to lay in bed, holding the blanket, while we read…” Her voice trailed off. She touched the book between them. “This book.” She looked up. “I know you suffered. I try to remember that when I have to remember every day that both my boys are gone. They were both lost. At war. In Afghanistan. One hit by artillery fire…my other...” She could barely speak. “A land mine.” She put her head down into her hands and cried. She cried her heart out. Then she felt a hand on her back, and voice, speaking. “Full Moon, by Brian Wilcox and Lawrence David. Illustrated by Brian Wilcox.” She sat up. Tears still wet on her cheeks. It was Jesus. No longer a statue, but a man, sitting next to her, reading her a book. A book she had used to read to her baby boys. “For my birthday, Grandma sent me a crystal globe of the city where she lives. “If you look carefully, maybe you can see me,” she wrote. I looked, but I couldn’t find her. Before going to bed, I made a wish that I’d get to visit Grandma real soon. Late that night, I found a full moon glowing in a starry sky. I whipped back my fishing rod and cast it to the moon. “To Grandma’s!” I shouted. The moon lifted me high, carrying me off to that magical city beyond the mountains, prairies and rivers.” And the story continued, the boy visiting cities and parks. Flying Cowboys polished stars, and tightrope walkers balanced on wires between buildings, every place he visited asking if anyone had seen his Grandma. Always, it was a no, and the moon lifted him high and away to the next magical place. . The woman just looked at Jesus’ face, so wrapped up in the story. Every line lit up for her, and her tears continued, even through the smiles that found her throughout. Finally, the boy reached Harbor Island, and the Statue of Liberty. The boys were always so excited when this happened. ‘“Happy Birthday!” my new friends cheered. Music played, animals sang, and everyone danced under the stars. And there, riding on the back of an African Elephant, was Grandma. “Please Moon, can you stop?” I asked. “Please, let’s stay for my party.” And the moon stood still in the sky and let me down. I gave Grandma a hug, a kiss, and a big, wide smile. I thanked her for the gift. And the swell party.” She started weeping again. “Grandma held me tight and kissed the top of my head. “Happy Birthday,” she whispered in my ear. “Have a good night’s rest.” She gave me a wink and a blink, and I quickly fell asleep.” His hand took hers, and held it. Just held it, and shut the book and told the rest without reading it. “The next morning I woke in my bed. I took my special gift and gave it a shake. The stars twinkled inside. And when I carefully peered into that crystal globe, sure enough, there was Grandma riding over the magical city on the back of an African elephant.” She threw herself into his arms and cried. And he just held her. “It’s alright. It’s alright to cry. They love you.” He waited, holding her, letting her tears fall until her sobs quieted. She sat back up and just looked at him. He touched her face. “They truly love you. Please don’t suffer. It hurts me to see you suffer. But they’re beautiful still, and they love you.” She nodded. And for the next hour or so, they talked. She, about her baby boys, and he, about his life. About pain, about the trials of suffering. About the pain of knowing, knowing that one’s son’s, one’s son, had hurt…had died. And they talked of love. The hurt of and the healing of love…and how love walked beyond life just to find love again. And she found it, that day, in her little church, on a bench, next to Jesus. Love. No one ever knew this happened. But the next day, a Sunday, saw Jesus, smiling, his marble body wrapped in a colorful quilt. And it was part of him, now, tucked into the marble in such a way that it could not be removed. For Jesus, whom I still, and will always, love. You are beloved.
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RebeccaTacosaGray |
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