since the loss of my family, i’ve been seeking the stories of broken women. even in terrible pain, one knows one is not the first to taste this flavor of sorrow. i found great camaraderie and comfort in the story of bitter old naomi, who was so changed by her grief that she started calling herself “mara”, which translates to “bitter tears.” (in a strange twist of fate, this was who i had in mind when i named my daughter. little did i know i too would soon be starting on an echo of naomi’s journey.)
though naomi lost her sons and husband, she became the grandmother to an ancestor of her nation’s greatest king, king david. she couldn’t see beyond her sorrow, but it didn’t matter. the redemptive power of love alchemized her sorrow into gold, in ways she couldn’t have possibly imagined.
may my losses be the gain of those who come after me.
may my heart be renewed by the possibilities created by my grief.
song of naomi
call me mara now, i told her
my way of saying that god is the one who burned me down
god, that taker of husbands and vanisher of sons
he felled my cypress in moab
he left me with the husk
i was naomi in her kitchen
tucking a strand behind her ear
willing the dough to rise and oiling her clay pots
gravel clatter at the tumble of her boys
playing the way men play
ruining things the way they ruin things
but that soft mother is no more
look upon me
haggard,
receiver of calamity!
trudging to judea, undoing all the dones
raising my fist to you
my bitter name for when you looked away
————————————————
a barley harvest grew
then soon my grandson in the womb
heart of boaz, son of ruth
can it be that i will love again
here in my arms is one root of love unfurling
bringer of names to come, father of kings
is my loss part of this tapestry of redemption?
do my tears serve to water the roots of the tree of jesse?
may it be, then
may it be
the wind lifts the summers dust about my sandals
nudges the apron against my knees
in the waning light i hear the formless air whisper
“daughter”
the child in my arms sees i the crone
no, i the daughter
wondering at the ending day
he grabs my little finger and draws it to his mouth
a baptism, and i am twice made new
Letters to a Life I Loved 