Thursday Mornings and the Cereus Flower

Rather than begin another blog by chiding myself for not writing, I decided to share some of what keeps me from expression. Today, I'm thinking about Thursdays.

For over a year now, most Thursday mornings, I've met with three senior aged women for a voice/choir music lesson. Sue, Judy, and Nana (my first husband's mom) sing in their church choir and needed some vocal reassurance. So they called me.

When we started meeting, I think I needed them more than they needed me. They valued me and truth is, at that point in time, I really needed to feel valued. But beyond the fact they built me up while I encouraged them, I came to value how we intersected so well right in the messy places in each other's lives.

Only a true friend can handle the messy places.

All four of us have successes intertwined with places of deep pain. Watching them walk out their difficulties with faith has offered perspective and calm. Even at their age they hurt for their kids, struggle with relationships, and cling to the cross for help when there are just no answers.

And so I love my Thursday morning foray into a Catholic choir room with women who keep walking out their faith in God.

Three weeks ago, Nancy, an 82 yr. old alto, joined us. She came for two weeks and then shared she would be gone the next week. What she didn’t say was that her son was dying of ALS. The others knew, of course, but Nancy just smiled and went on with her day as usual.

When we gathered the next week for our lesson, without Nancy, Sue told us about a call she’d gotten days before. Nancy had phoned after dark on a cool, rainy night, insisting Sue walk down to see her cereus flower in bloom. Since they live on the same street, Sue obliged.

She put on a jacket, grabbed an umbrella, and hurried through the dark rain to see the flower that blooms—at night—only once a year. They huddled around the delicate, fragrant flower in honor of Nancy’s ailing son and quietly celebrated his fading life.

He died last Sunday.

A flower here and gone. A blossom for a night. What a blessing to have friends who walk through the dark to share the messy place—the place of deepest pain and greatest beauty.

Last Thursday, we didn’t sing. We just talked. Nobody had all the answers. Nobody had it all together. But we had each other in that large Catholic choir room and it was good.