Come Back

April is National Poetry Month. In honor of this fact, I read some poetry this afternoon. I found a poetry book while weeding out some books over Spring Break.

Three poems jumped out at me, two of which I’ll share tonight.

One:
Comment, by Dorothy Parker
Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.

Since reading that fun little verse, I’ve learned that Marie of Romania was a real person. And while she seems like a perfectly honorable person in Romanian history—one who even visited the United States—I mostly like this poem because it’s super fun to read dramatically aloud. Try it!

Two:
Come Back Safely, by Sylva Gaboudikan
even to say good-bye
even if it’s the last time
even reluctantly

even to hurt me again
even with the harsh acid
of sarcasm that stings

even with a new kind of pain
even fresh from the embrace
of another. Come back, just come.

I teared up the first time that I read these words. I just did the same as I typed them out.

During his sermon yesterday, Mister Pastor Patrick unknowingly helped me name something that I’ve been trying to name for years. While discussing the relationship between Jesus and Mary Magdalene, Patrick explained that Jesus was the first person to truly see Mary Magdalene. Jesus saw through Mary’s brokenness and believed in her as the woman that she actually was: a beautiful child of God. No matter what she did—or had done. No matter how lonely she was—or she would become. Jesus saw her and believed in her. He loved her and transformed her. Then he was gone. He was dead. And she was devastated—left with a hole in her heart where love and friendship used to be.

I am very thankful that I’ve not lost many friends to death. But I have lost many friends. When natural time and distance play their part in the losing, I understand the loss. I understand the seasons of life and that people come and go as one progresses along life’s journey. Because of my tremendous capacity to love and remember, I miss these friendships and think of them often. Sometimes I feel as if I have credits rolling through my brain, listening all of the characters from various points of life.

It’s when someone cuts me off that I find myself devastated like Mary. It happens suddenly—possibly after clues of its coming—but suddenly nonetheless. Drastically. A cut. A nail. A figurative death. And then they are gone. Someone who has been a friend—who has seen me and whom I have seen—who has loved me and whom I have loved—who has laughed with me and whose tears I have dried—is gone. And it hurts. And it leaves a hole in my heart. And I grieve from the depths of my being.

For Mary, there was resolve to this deep grief in this life. Jesus returned. He came back and restored her broken heart, offering such deep hope and transformative power that Mary’s life and story would rise above society’s discrimination and be remembered for thousands of years to come.

For me, though, there likely will not be resolve in this life. For whatever reason, friends likely will not return. Restoration likely will not occur. And yet I live with quiet hope and open my arms and heart with unconditional love and forgiveness. “Come back,” my soul prays, “just come.”