I held her hand off-and-on for about 6 hours, until
the coroner came.

It was sad, there was not a sound.  Yet I was
listening... you see, there was that echo....for
hours....

Concerts make so much sound!  Yet, after the last
notes of a musical concert, I leave my seat like
anyone else.  I then drive home.  Yet, I still hear an
echo....   in my mind... resonating... for hours....

I have watched cross-country races in the past...
and as I see my favorite runner in the final corner,
turning, striving, to pour all his last strength into the
last yards of distance, I scream for him!  And for
minutes after, I hear the pounding of my own heart
from all the adrenaline!  And the echo of that
moment resonates... for hours.....

What sound?  Well, the sound seems to be the
crowd's final thundering applause, of my screaming
for my friend and my heart beating with adrenaline
.... of being part of something with all my strength,
heart, soul, and mind....  but now, it is over...
gone... finished... yet, there is the echo.  

What echo?  Somehow, it seems to be the echo of
'closure', of a 'job well done', of songs song well, of
a race run no matter the roughness of the course,
and of memories that flood into the mind like cool
lemonade on a humid summer day.

Who hasn't smiled at the echo that banks off the
stones of streets in the deep part of the night...
when sounds carry ever so far... and the air is crisp
in autumn....of a child playing near the streets...
and being called by a father's deep voice, "It is late!
 Son!  Come home!'  

And then, we hear the laughing, and scampering
and pounding of feet, as the child races home to his
father.  We all smile at the sound... and the echo
fills us with memories of our own childhood.

I had heard my mother's heart sing as she began to
walk with Christ.  I had seen some of my mother's
race as a Christian.  My heart had pounded with joy
at the acceptance of her love towards me -- her
only son so radically changed.  

To be sure, I was not privileged to see the angels
enter my mother's home.  I was not able to hear
their wings move.  Nor, did my ears perceive even
one of their words.  And truthfully, I did not her her
Father calling out, "It is late!  Daughter!  Come
home!"  

I did not hear her soul laughing in joy, as her truest
person scampered to be in her Father's house.

But I sat with my mother's body for hours, because
I could hear the echo of something divine that had
passed that way.

The sound.  Sometimes, I miss it.

The echo.  Sometimes, I still hear it.  

May our Lord wash your feet during this
experience.  May you wash the feet of others with
the comfort that you have received from Him.

Much love in Christ always and unconditionally;

Caryn


**************************


(c) Copyright Caryn LeMur 2007
The Collection of Short Works,
Letters, and Poems
The Sound And The Echo
I wanted to comfort a friend
whose father had terminal cancer.

How?

Sometimes, there are sounds....

Sometimes, there are only
echoes....


Softly signed;

Caryn

**************************


The Sound And
The Echo


Dear T.:

When my mother was found dead,
I was notified.  She had passed
away in her chair, while watching
TV.

I went to her house, and sat next
to her  - she on her favorite chair,
and I on the couch next to her.
In Deepest Sympathy -
Poetry for those that grieve
Building Faith, Hope, & Love -
Stories and Writings
A Cup Of Cold Water -
Letters For The Thirsty
A Pause In The Forest -
Poetry for thoughtful moments