I’ll
confess. Sometimes I inwardly cringe when I hear the question (especially when
it comes from complete strangers who email or hand me their work) that, as an
English teacher and writer, I’ve been asked thousands of times: “Would you like
to read what I’ve written?”
“Of
course,” I normally answer, regardless of whether I really have extra time.
The
standard reply I gave my 17-year-old nephew, however, was 100 percent sincere.
I’d never seen his writing. I was curious. Best of all, since he lived several
states away and wasn’t my student, I could set aside my red pen and simply
enjoy his work with no obligation to critique, grade, or give feedback.
Without
expectation, I nestled into a quilt and opened his St. Joseph High School
college-writing class binder. I began to read, awed and delighted by the content, craft
mastery, and word choices on the typed pages. An hour in, however, I
paused. Tears fell. This can’t be, I
thought. It happened six years ago. I’m
reading too much into this.
The
next day I asked; Jonathan confirmed my suspicions. He’d written the poem about
his oldest cousin, my oldest daughter. Jonathan's powerfully transparent words,
emailed during his drive home to Michigan, deserve to be heard:
“Every time I visit South Carolina, in the midst of all the family
and good food and fun, I think of Jenna and how much better it would be with
her here.
I have so many great memories of games, plays, and conversations
about books that I had with Jenna. She always spoke to me like I wasn't just a
silly elementary kid. Love and respect defined who she was.
She was the best cousin and friend I could ever imagine. So,
it was really hard to write the poem “Funeral Flowers.” I wrote it by myself in
silence. Although I cried as I finished it, I was happy because it communicates
the ache I feel.
I think we all share a longing for the way things used to be—a
longing that will someday make our joy incomprehensible when Jesus makes all
things right. But for now, I hope other people know that, in their pain,
they’re not alone.”
Please stay. Hope remains.
~Beth
Saadati
