House by the Sea
Dusk falls and casts the old house in a faint amber glow, and we gather around this weathered kitchen table with mismatched chairs, holding chipped cups of steaming hot tea. The sound of our voices floats through the evening fog – words of love, loss, and all the pieces of life that bind us together with a sharp, painful kind of joy. Just outside the back door, the sea rises and falls; a constant reminder of the impermanence of being human, of being alive.
The room is full of laughter, tears, and the quiet, sacred stillness that holds space for the telling of stories we were told not to tell – the stories they said were too shameful, too heavy to bring out from underneath our sadness.
One of us tells the story of learning to be a minister’s wife, followed by a succession of children and dreams quietly folded away. Then the unlearning of sin and damnation in the soft, gentle arms of another woman.
Others share tales of a father lost, then found. An angry mother forsaken, then forgiven. A younger brother taken on as one's own child. A soul-love hoped for, but not yet realized. As the night draws on, we bring out story after story, laying them down, like stones, at this bittersweet altar.
And of course, the dead children are brought to the table - it couldn’t be any other way. The son of a sister, a beloved nephew. The brother who almost made it home. A daughter, just seventeen, the whole world at her feet. Through tears, we clasp each other's hands around the table as if we were preparing to say grace (blessed art thou among women!)
These stories, these generations of women holding space for each other at midnight in this house by the sea bring us the gift of redemption. This is holy ground, a sacred converging of salt, of mothers, of the many faces of god in the flesh. When I close my eyes, I feel the presence of the ancestors and ghost-children gathering around us as if to say, peace be with you, and with your spirit.
In these moments, I am reminded that holiness does not live in the old men’s churches, temples, or cathedrals. Not even in their venerated books or symbols. No, holiness lives and moves and breathes right here:
with you and me at this blessed, weathered kitchen table by the sea.
Molly Senecal 10/19/22
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