Letter to an old friend

 Elise

Just a note of encouragement, your example meant so much to me when I wondered if I would ever have a friend, or if I could learn to be a friend. Being a member of the orchestra changed my life, for the better.

I hear the sense of frustration in your voice and wish to carry some of that burden and lift your pain.  This I cannot do.  What I can do is tell you that I am a fellow traveler on the road.  There are many of us who quietly carry a load, who desire to walk beside you on your journey.  

Journeys can be tough but sometimes they are the best way to learn and to grow. A Redwood Forest requires fire to be germinated. Their seedlings open under great heat generated from a forest fire.  

On Mr. Frodo and Gethsemane.

What be their task.

Here in the garden.

Know they not then, this burden.

Come to gloat, had they now,

Or only to mourn, this one.

If this be the failure, final.

All will be lost.

How to strengthen him then.

Thus, now they confirmed.

This burden, could carry, they not,

For man

For God.

The blood it flowed, drop by drop.

Once before there had been such a scene.

High on Mount Doom, in Mordor, a task almost too much, for this one to bare.

Mr. Frodo, all spent from burden, thus carried.

It had all seamed in vain.

Till came the friend, who walked the path.

Samwise Gamgee

"Come, Mr. Frodo!' he cried. 'I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you."

So do angel's imitate men and hobbits.

This lesson they share.

 
my poem written when my wife was undergoing cancer treatments

I wish I could carry your burden, but this I cannot, but like the angels in Gethsemane and Samwise Gamgee on Mount Mordor, I can walk beside you and share the pain. 

Early in our marriage my wife came to me and told me that she had stomach cancer.  She said not to worry as stomach cancer is a slow burner and we still had decades together.  From time to time, I would ask her about cancer.  She would confirm that it was no big deal, and she could handle it well.  I noticed that she held her stomach more and that more kinds of food seamed to unsettle her stomach. Then came the time she stated that the cancer was terminal and that she had six month to live. This would be the last time we would discuss the matter and she did not intend to inform anyone else but the children. She wanted to live the last six months with her children as normal as possible. 

We held a family council and decided to try one more unconventional treatment that at least offered the possibility of returning her appetite.  This, by some unexplained miracle, did return her to health.  She is doing well today.  

I cannot say God will cure you.  I cannot say that my diabetes will be cured.  Maybe together we can learn to manage our illness until we learn the lessons God has sent us here to learn. 

In the middle of the cancer treatments, I started writing poetry to dispel the pain. I needed somewhere to put all the guilt, sorrow and shame.  At first it was bad, very bad. But with time I found my voice and I shared it with a few trusted friends. I found a friend who helped me carry my load.  Those were some dark years. The support of a friend carried me through while we waited for the cure.

One of my favorite books on pain and shame and suffering is The Shack by William P. Young.  At the start of the book Mack’s daughter is kidnapped and murdered.  He is invited by Papa, his wife’s name for God, to come for a visit in the shack where his daughter was murdered. When he arrives, the shack is turned into a beautiful log cabin and a lady that looks like Oprah Winfrey opens the door. She says she is  Papa and is grateful he has stopped by for a visit.  Together in the kitchen they kneaded bread. He reminds her that she abandoned her son on the cross.  Then she states “Son, when all you see is your pain you lose sight of me.'' She shows him the scars she still carries on her wrist.  While Jesus may not have recognized her presence, still, she shared the load.  

The Shack - "Together" scene   

I wonder how many times Papa continues to carry our load though we may not recognize her presence.

I did not recognize Papa carrying my load. 

This poem came out of one of those difficult periods.  My wife was dying, and my daughter was getting married.  She asked the dog to walk her down the aisle.  I don’t know if life could get much darker. 

The scares, He bore.

The knife, it was not sharp,

Just enough,

Serrated, thus it was,

Small in size.

Designed to portion a steak

into smaller pieces.

It had rested on the table.

Left from a previous meal.

It was a tough morning,

leading to a tough day.

One was dying, was she?

One was taking the covenants,

of marriage.

Both performed,

one the marriage,

one the promise.

He was uncertain of his place in both, lives.

Luck had it there were no guns in the house.

Still,

Would they really care in the morning?

There was a lot of blood,

Still...

I learned that playing with knives did not solve my problem; it only left one more mess to clean up. 

I guess what I am trying to say is I did come through the darkness with the help of a friend.  My Heavenly Mother offered me the gift of poetry to shed the shame. I am grateful for the gift, even though it came at a heavy cost. 

Are there any gifts Papa has offered you as she has helped to carry your load?

I love to hear about your music.  I stopped playing when I left for the mission field. String Bass is not a solo instrument. Maybe when I finish college and life slows down a little, I will start those Cello lessons. Till then I will listen to Cellos solos on Spotify and think of you, still, as I hope to share your load today. 

Your fellow traveler.

Steven Bassett