“Behold, I Tell You a Mystery”

I made my bed so I could lay down and meditate there, but then I found myself walking outside and sitting in the grass in our yard.

I like to come out here when I’m overwhelmed—always barefoot so I can ground myself to the earth while I enjoy the trees and the sky, the clouds and the sun. Today there are no clouds though, just blue blue blue stretching into infinity.

I don’t think I’ve ever written out here—now that I am, I’m really not sure why; it’s so calm and peaceful out here.

Sitting here in the grass, I started thinking about my Uncle John, who died this year on July 1st. I heard myself saying aloud, “I can almost see him right there… Is that the last time I saw him?”

I think it was. He was with my Aunt Erin when she came over to pick up my parents dog, Maddy, who I was watching at the time. My Aunt Erin and Uncle John came to the door, and I proposed we go for a walk — I wanted to show my uncle my neighborhood and the grounds here as they’re very beautiful and I’m proud to live here. He always told me, “You should be very proud of yourself.”

It was the first and only time my uncle made it to our place, though we had every intention to have him over for dinner, make him a home-cooked meal and make him feel special and loved. But oftentimes when you don’t make something happen, it doesn’t happen. I find some solace in knowing the intention was there, but I still wish we could’ve made it happen. Who knows how that might have changed things for him. I really would’ve liked for him to feel the Love that radiates from our home — he deserved to, so it’s a real shame.

Anyways, we took our walk and they marveled at how beautiful the grounds are. I told John he’s got to come by for dinner soon, and he said he would really like that. Then the walk came full circle, and we were back at our place.

They were walking to the car, and I was standing on the front walkway watching them go. I called out, “I love you, Uncle John,” and he replied, “Love you too, Jess,” and I swear I can still see him there—with his smile as bright as ever despite that he was missing a tooth, with those dark sunglasses on: shielding his eyes from the sun, but from us too—he had found them in my Aunt Teresa’s car when she picked him up from rehab days ago; he put them on and had not taken them off since.

I swear I can still see him standing there at the edge of the yard, just like I can almost see the edges coming loose in my field of vision now, like the seams of reality are coming apart — just barely — not enough to be concerned, but just enough to notice it in the slanting last glimmers of sunlight this August evening.

That’s how I see him there now — just enough — and I wonder if that was the last time I saw him; I think it was.

I spoke at his funeral mass at my Aunt Coleen’s church in Brooklyn. I’m usually very averse to public speaking, but when my Aunt Coleen asked if anyone would like to do a reading at his funeral, I volunteered immediately — the thought of it was very nerve-wracking, but I wanted to be strong for my family, to speak for them when they may not be able to. So I decided right then that I would, and nothing could change my mind about it after that.

I really liked the reading I got to do, too. This was the reading:

A reading from the first Letter of Saint Paul to the Corinthians (1 Corinthians 15:51:57)

“Brothers and sisters: Behold, I tell you a mystery. We shall not all fall asleep, but we will all be changed, in an instant, in the blink of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised, and we shall be changed. The Word of the Lord.”

The service was really beautiful, the priest gave a really meaningful speech relevant to my uncle’s life, not sweeping the less favorable details under the rug but instead honoring the truth of my uncle’s struggles in life. My Aunt Coleen and I each did a reading, which felt healing. My mom read a poem that she wrote to say farewell to her baby brother — it made me cry, and I knew instantly that the writer gene I reap did not just come from my Dad’s side.

I miss my uncle a lot. I hope he is at peace now (I know he is, actually) and I hope he knows I am proud of myself. Every time I feel proud of myself, I will think of all the times I heard him say, “You should be very proud of yourself.” Most of all I hope he knows that I’m proud of him, too.

© 2021 Jessica Wolf

(Originally written 8/15/2021)