Holes in the Sky

I listen to my son’s story of feeling his grandma near. He was alone. He was struggling with the language and culture in a foreign country. It was a difficult time for our family. She had been gone for 3 years. It’s not the first time I’ve heard the story. Hearing it still makes me cry.

He shared the story at a family gathering last month, our first since her funeral. We’ve been together in small groups, but for various reasons, it’s been 18 years since our last family reunion. 

After eating one of my mom’s signature desserts, 34 of us sit close. We swap anecdotes, some funny, some poignant, some encouraging; each one tender to the storyteller. Gen 3 (her grandchildren) tell how she was a letter writer, clothing mender, quilt creator, dessert baker, grammar corrector, cheer leader, story reader, ice cream lover and tight hugger.

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I think of Patricia Polacco’s book, Holes in the Sky. As a child, Patricia studies the night sky from her Michigan farmhouse yard, while her Russian grandmother points out the stars. “Holes in the sky,” her grandmother calls them. “That’s the light of heaven you see showing through from the other side.” 

(Stars) are holes in the sky. That’s the light of heaven you see showing through from the other side.

Patricia Polacco

Heaven showing through.

The memories — more than letters, food and stories — are evidence of time and attention, evidence of love.

The word evidence takes me to another time. When we had twin 2-year-olds and 3 grade-schoolers. When things were chaotic and beautiful, intense and exhausting.

At the end of my husband’s workday, we kiss hello. He notices a stain on my t-shirt. I pull my shirt forward and see for the first time smeared peanut butter and jelly I’ve been wearing all afternoon. I grumble. He responds, “The stain is evidence of a hug.”

I think God gives us show-throughs in a thousand different ways. 

Once on a visit with my dad, I planned to complete a task that had been weighing on me for a while. It was my first free day after a busy work season.

At his house and with his direction, I search for the key to the safe deposit box. I search through files and papers. Nothing. It is almost time to leave and I haven’t accomplished an urgent task. I am frustrated and my dad is agitated.

As I pass the bookshelf of photo albums my mom created, I have a thought.

“Let go of your plan.” 

(Letting go doesn’t come easily to someone who has been known to write a completed task on the list, just so she can cross it off.)

I choose a few albums and sit by my dad. I read the letter my mom wrote to her family after the death of their toddler. I feel her grief and hope. I see their support.

We view pictures of my dad and mom. I read aloud her hand-written descriptions and musings. As I read her words, I hear her voice.

At times, my dad thinks he is sitting with her. In those moments I get a glimpse into their life together– fun memories, his concern for her and his desire that she be happy.

My dad and I shared moments I almost missed. Moments he was there. And with her words, she was there too.

And I remembered.

Being present doesn’t come naturally.

Being present is rarely convenient.

Being, not doing. Sometimes the best times require a change of focus.

And our family reunion? Hello! We’ve missed you. We’re so happy you’re back.