the traveling pendant

I knew that it was you when I saw your package on the kitchen table. Among the second grade papers, and napkins fallen over from their holder, lay a bulging mailer with bad penmanship….Patch’s penmanship, of course, a doctor.

I opened your package with cautious care and eager messiness….careful not to rip. Anxious to see. I opened and declared, “It’s the pendant, she’s here.” For a long time I held you in my hands in disbelief perhaps. I ran outside as the UPS man delivered Christmas presents wrapped in a brown cardboard box, and I giggled to myself, because I knew that you knew and understood. I knew what the kids did not…that Santa shops early because there’s a budget and that even with a budget (even a teacher’s budget, or a nurse’s budget) Santa makes it work. The mountains glowed in the evening light. 

I felt like you’d feel at home here. Our home is small and comfortable. Our home is warm and full of sound….kid sounds. We like to eat, and tonight you sat at our round oak kitchen table for leftovers of sliced ham with pineapples, green beans, beef stew, and biscuits. We talked about lumpy milk, report cards, and the sounds letters make when you double them.

You stayed with us for only a week. A long time in the course of your journey….you’ve been traveling swiftly these days, but a short time in the course of our lives. I wish I could hold you just a bit longer. I’ve learned so much, no, I’ve remembered so much having you here.

I think that you’ll understand. You were a mother too, and so I find you nodding when I picture you in my mind. I know that I never met you, but somehow I feel that you’ve been right here beside me—guiding me this past week.

I wanted to take you places. To show you. To let you see. We drove to the top of the mountain, two times a day—never to stop—but always looking—always reflecting and observing—but never stopping before descending the other side. Winding down toward work, then in reverse toward home. We caught snowflurries in our hair in the morning dropping off the kids, remembering breakfast and lunch money, blankets and bookbags, socks and shoelaces. We observed our right to vote and our right to honor the service of our military veterans. We wept for soldiers we’ve known and lost, and we wept for soldiers we’ve never met. We paused and prayed and thanked God for our freedoms. I rubbed the pendant like a worry stone. And you, you sent comfort my way.

I wanted to take you into the mysterious world of Luray Caverns, down deep below the earth into the darkness and warmth of the underground. When we ended up at the public library for a performance of The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe, I felt embarrassed—as if I’d let you down—and yet, I felt you smiling. Kids laughed and wiggled in their seats and I threw my head back and filled my lungs with the smell of books and the taste of giddiness. Tears came to me, and I understood. My son wore you that day like a medal of honor. He vowed to protect you like Aslan protected the Pevensie children. Following the play we romped in the park across the street, and the sun felt strong for November.

My biggest regret in life is that I never feel fully in control of any given thing. Everything is a balancing act. If my children are fed and entertained, papers pile themselves up to be graded. If papers are graded, my children wonder why I won’t play with them. If I balance schoolwork with housework and my children are satisfied, I know that I’ve neglected my husband.  I rub and rub the worry stone. Having you with me, knowing your service as a mother, as a wife, as a nurse, I reflected. 

On our first morning across the mountain, we ended up behind a construction truck—instead of the usual poultry truck hauling hundreds of doomed chickens. With no passing lane, I followed the truck down and around, spiraling back into the Valley. I’d never seen the truck before, but its license plate made me take notice, “LIFETIM.” In my daily routine, a 45 minute drive across some of the most breathtaking land in Creation, I have time to think. When I climb the hill on the highway which bypasses my family’s farm, I wonder what my parents are doing, I smile at my grandfather’s house—visible from the road, and I miss my grandmother and my great-uncle who are buried atop the hill in our family cemetery. By the time I reach the Shenandoah River, I’m thinking about my husband and kids. If a sad song comes on the country radio station, forget it—the tears are bound to fall. And, so it is in the life of a mother. I rubbed the pendant for comfort, and comfort came. Lifetime. That’s what your journey was meant to represent—your lifetime of service beyond self. Your lifetime, and the loves of your lifetime. In that drive—our week’s worth of commutes, we figured out some things. One is this: the dishes will still be dirty if left in the sink, the papers will continue to pile, but the children will change—they will grow—that’s what they do. Trips and adventures will be planned, and plans will change—what if that change is part of the adventure? 

I worried about stacking up to the notable people with whom you’d visit. Patch left for Russia just days after you visited him. I drove you from small town to small town across the northwestern mountains and valleys of Virginia. Could that be enough? Could you find significance in that? I think that you did. One thing that my grandmother taught me when I was young was this: when you need to, rest. Perhaps it was time for you to rest—jet setting may be exciting, but I feel like I can say that it wasn’t something you were used to. We rested together, didn’t we? We cleaned house, built Lego houses, watched dress up fashion shows, completed grad school homework, and even graded some papers, but we also rested. We cooked dinner with love, gave hugs, kissed wounds, and reflected on how good and rich life truly is. I know that you wished to see Hawaii one day—I want to visit Japan, China, Egypt, Ireland—but after our visit, I know this too: you lived your life just as you chose to, and while you didn’t reach Hawaii in your lifetime, I don’t believe you would have sacrificed one second of your life to have gotten there. 

God bless you Mama Brooks, and thank you for our visit.

To learn more about The Traveling Pendant, where she's been and where she's going, visit the Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/TheTravelingPendant 

Copyright © 2011. Carrie Ellen Campbell. 

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