A Garden Of White

Twice in my life I have had my heart ripped from my chest. The first time it happened I was thirty-five years old. My only daughter died of a rare childhood cancer when she was seven.

The second time I was considerably older. My husband of thirty-eight years, minus a week, died of a fatal, incurable cancer--multiple myeloma. In between those two devastations, I began walking the spiritual path. Needless to say, it was uphill all the way. But somewhere deep in my soul, I was never bitter. Sorrowful, yes--bitter, no. I just wanted to find God so that He could answer some questions for me. Like “Why are you doing this to me?”

Oh, yes, I am a curious person and there is nothing like double sorrow to hone the edges of the question. It became a piercing point in my side, a crucifixion lance. I had to watch my husband slowly but surely lose his ability to make blood cells. Had to help him in and out of bed, had to make the decision to put him into hospice. Had to call on God for strength and mercy. He delivered.

Five years have now gone by since we laid him to rest. My tears have been transmuted into drops of light. As I type these words into the computer I feel their transformative power. Given to God, sorrow becomes soft rain to make the heart flower once again. This time I am expecting a garden of white.