BE STILL AND KNOW

The year 2024 rapidly sprinted to a close. I had been valiantly fighting my internal desire to race through the early days of winter toward unpromised days of renewal and peace mysteriously hidden at the start of a new year. Tonight, I found myself in church, 48 hours from the dropping of the silver ball that I would not stay up to watch.

The 6:30 Sunday evening service has become my new favorite time to attend mass at St. Michael Parish. On this night, the church held a memorial mass for Mom. Keeping up with all of Mom’s masses challenged my retired-person calendar skills but was a continual blessing in my heart.

I was anxious and tense that night, not because of the memorial. Christmas had just been five days earlier, and the sky was dark. A terrible wind howled its way throughout the early evening night. On top of that, the Steelers had just lost three straight games, culminating on Christmas Day. 

The church did not reach the shoulder-to-shoulder capacity of Christmas Eve, so I wasn’t too concerned about finding an area on a pew where I could sit by myself. The congregation of Sunday evening church-goers stood for an unfortunately half-hearted “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful!” Everyone seemed rather tired (possibly from a week of family gatherings and celebrations), but I did my best to carry a tune as Father Luis made his way from the vestibule to the front of the church.

Father Luis arrived at St. Michael this past summer. He and Mom grew close when he visited her to talk and pray during the hottest times of the year. Her eyes always popped with excitement whenever Father Luis came through the door, so I felt much better when he offered the memorial. Mom would have liked this.

As Father Luis greeted everyone and began the opening prayers, I settled into my spot on the pew. Throughout mass, I listened to the reading and Father Luis’s homily. Still, I occasionally drifted off to memories that popped into my mind and even wondered helplessly about daily concerns. I felt the hard wind blow against the church's stained glass windows, and I knew I was present but wasn’t totally in mind, body, and spirit.

Prayers and occasional singing jarred my pondering mind. Outwardly, I remained reserved as I sat in the pew, adjusting my jacket and rearranging my keys and prayerbook. Inwardly, my mind gravitated to the distraction of a crying child or the fading beauty of the Christmas poinsettias remaining around the altar. My latent ADD ignited uncomfortable Catholic guilt as I glanced at my fellow parishioners, who appeared untroubled and engaged in the service.

Sometimes, uncertainty and frustration attack me from both sides. I struggle to focus and grow flushed from embarrassment known only to me. I found the big white candle that glowed near the Advent wreath. Taking some deep breaths, I began to fixate on the tiny flame I could see from over a dozen pews away.

I slowly began to find my place, my grounding. Whenever I felt as if I was straying, I closed my eyes, took another deep breath, and opened my eyes. The mass continued as the church lights flickered with the roar of the wind outside. The organist led us all in “Angels We Have Heard on High” as the congregation continued to process the middle aisle for communion. And the mountains in reply, Echoing their joyous strains. Glor-

And then the lights went out. The church was dark except for the candles adorning the altar.

Silence wrapped us in the darkness. Everyone stood still in the communion line, unsure whether to move or talk, as we all seemed to be holding our breaths for the lights to come back on. I have been in places where the lights had gone out, and everyone began chattering and even laughing. The church being pitch dark except for four or five candles illuminating the empty darkness struck me differently.

My anxiety and tension melted completely. I no longer needed to keep either at bay with deep breaths and candle-watching. I chuckled a little. I ever so softly sang to myself. Glor-or-or-or-or-or-ia. No one noticed. I smiled as I cherished the quiet and solitude amidst a crowd of people in the dark. 

And then one light, a small light, glowed a white electric box in the hands of a man a row in front of me. I could see his thumbs moving across the bottom of the screen as he texted someone.

Two more lights blinked as people across the aisle took out their mobile phones. One lady held hers in front of her like a makeshift candle. I could see Father Luis standing at the front of the communion line. He appeared ready to begin again. An usher from the vestibule marched up the aisle with his mobile phone held high so those in line could move forward without fear. 

People began whispering with their neighbors as more cell phones came alive throughout the church. Many people began to feel more at ease using their phones in a place where we once all thought it best to put them away. The darkness remained, but the random scattering of cell phone lights transformed a moment of peaceful solemnity into something else. 

I kept my phone in my pocket, wanting to remain in the tranquility of the darkness with only the candles burning from far away. Mass continued as Father Luis confidently navigated the altar area, finding his spot at the front of the church to give a final blessing. He asked us to be careful as we left and drove home.

I sat in the pew where I had been the entire mass. The organist played no closing hymn as people quietly laughed and talked while bumping into one another despite having lights from their cell phones to guide them. They had conversations I envisioned myself having in a different time or place, innocent conversations about lost electricity and stormy weather.

I sat and watched them leave, hoping to turn back time because I wanted to rediscover the peacefulness I felt when the lights went out. I stayed and did the unthinkable. I looked around with the hope that everyone was gone. I pulled out my phone and quickly snapped a picture of the altar as it stood in the dark, candles casting a warm glow in the empty sanctuary. 

Once I did this, I jammed my phone into my jacket pocket. I wished I had not taken that picture. I had violated some unspoken trust between the serenity still in the air and my presence as a guest. 

It’s just that sometimes I need a tangible reminder of what to do when the weather changes and when pressures and responsibilities become heavy. I forgot that I do not need to fear when life turns dark. I just need to be still and know.

CHESAPEAKE HOUSE: A CHRISTMAS MEMORY

 

When the snowy-haired hostess returned from seating a guest, she found me waiting alone in the cozy, warm lobby of Chesapeake House. I stood beneath the decorative shark hanging on the wall. A Santa hat rested atop the shark's head, with a small red and white blanket surrounding its fin and an unfortunate elf's legs dangling from its jaws. "Do you like that?" asked the hostess. "How many are in your party?"

"Just one," I smiled back. "I called in a reservation earlier today." 

She confirmed my name in her reservation book: "Oh, I see you wanted a window seat." She looked behind her, where the dining area was only half-full. "Unfortunately," she apologized, "it will be a few minutes before your table is ready." I could see other guests occupying the coveted window seats beside the famed Chesapeake Bay alligator pond.

I smiled and sat on a bench behind me. "I have plenty of time and can wait for the table." The sky outside grew darker as the glow from the Christmas lights inside illuminated the entranceway, welcoming guests to the fireside happy hour. "It's pretty here this time of year. I like how you have the restaurant decorated."

"Thank you. We try to make everything nice for Christmas." The hostess smiled and continued to greet the periodic customers arriving for dinner. "I see you are here by yourself. Is this a special occasion?"

I caught the hospitable genuineness in her eyes as we continued the conversation while I waited. "Yes, it is kind of odd," I began. My family loved coming to Myrtle Beach during the summer, and my parents always took us to Chesapeake House to eat each visit. This place is a Myrtle Beach tradition."

"Over fifty years," the hostess added. "I have been here for over forty years myself."

"Wow. That's amazing." I paused slightly, believing the lady would appreciate my reason for being there. "So my Mom passed away this past August…"

“Oh, I am so sorry.”

"Thank you," I smiled, oddly having grown more comfortable with condolences over the past several months. "Mom loved Myrtle Beach. I brought her and my aunt down here years ago. That trip was the last beach visit she had. Of course, we came here for dinner and requested a window seat by the pond. So, I kind of thought…"

"Oh, that is sweet," The hostess nodded as she caught her breath. "How old was your mother?"

"Mom was 94. We were blessed to be able to keep her at home until she passed. Not easy to do." 

The hostess took her own slight pause before continuing, "My mother passed two years ago. It is always tough for the family around Christmas. We do what we can to remember her. I love your idea, though."

Eventually, we wound through the numerous tables, some arranged for large bus groups and others for more intimate family gatherings. My table was in the far corner of Chesapeake House, directly beside the window adjacent to the pond, which was vanishing in the darkness of the December evening.

"Good evening. My name is Donna. I will be your waitress." She began removing the extra place settings. "Would you like anything to drink with your meal?"

Sometimes, we recede into ourselves and the quietness of our hearts. Other times, we can listen to a voice telling us to venture forward and embrace our reasons and feelings for arriving at the moment we have placed ourselves. The magic happens when we can be both outside and inside ourselves in the midst of the moment, watching as both spectators and actors in our own lives.

"Hi, Donna. Could you leave the setting on the other side of the table?"

"Sure. I thought you were dining alone."

"I'm not." I chuckled to myself. "Could I have a glass of pinot noir?"

Donna smiled while tilting her head oddly at me. "Sure. I will be right back with your wine and a basket of hushpuppies."

Donna left me at the corner table at Chesapeake House, where I envisioned myself sitting weeks before Thanksgiving when I planned this trip. Over the past year, the inevitable nature of life reminded me how beyond my control life appears to be and how easy it is to succumb to stress, hopelessness, and loss. 

I reached into my jacket pocket and slowly pulled out my effort to take back control of how my story unfolded. I did not need to fear discomfort and loss, and I certainly did not need to run from it. I opened the easel on the back of the small picture frame and set the picture directly on the table across from me, beginning a new memory this Christmas.

Donna's eyes locked onto the picture frame as she set down my wine and hush puppies. Since this entire meal could become uncomfortable for both of us if I did not explain myself, I shared my heart, pretending that I had known Donna for longer than ten minutes.

"Donna, this is my Mom, Betty. She passed away last August. I am not nuts or anything, OK?" I guess I needed to clarify that before continuing. "Mom loved coming to Chesapeake House, so - you know - I thought this would be good for both of us."

Donna jumped head-first into my Hallmark moment and said Mom was beautiful. I explained that this was a picture from the last time we visited Chesapeake House, pointing out the pond and the view from a side table. "I think she is even drinking some sweet tea."

"Oh, I don't think that is tea," Donna said, leaning closer to the picture of Mom. "We use different glasses for tea. That looks like a glass of zinfandel."

"Really?" I looked closer at the picture myself, struggling to recapture that dinner from years ago. Donna may have been right about this.

"This is sweet," Donna said, then taking a beat, "Would you like to know the specials?"

"Actually, no. I may not remember what Mom drank, but I know what she would want if she were here to see the menu. I will have a cup of fish stew, a salad, and fried prawns with a baked potato." I looked at Donna to see if she understood. "She always ordered that," I added. 

"Perfect," Donna laughed graciously. "I will have your stew here in a minute."

I edged the candle closer to the frame to illuminate Mom's face in the darkened dining room. After adjusting my place settings, I lifted my glass of wine to the picture. I smiled, realizing the significance of the toast: "Merry Christmas, Mom. This is for you."

Across the alligator pond, winter's darkness had replaced the early summer evening, but the tastes, the view, and the feelings remained as they had years ago. The fish stew's spicy broth blended with the sweetness of the round, golden hushpuppies. The homemade Thousand Island dressing topped the crispy salad. I sliced the cucumbers into smaller pieces, doubling the number as if Mom had offered hers to me the way she used to do. 

Donna returned, carefully clearing away the empty soup cup and salad bowl. She refilled my water glass, avoiding disturbing the candle and picture frame. "Is your dinner good so far?"

"Everything is perfect. Thank you for being so kind."

"Wonderful." Once she had her tray in order, she stopped to smile. "Well, your dinner will be out shortly." She took a step away but immediately turned back uncomfortably to the table. "Do you mind if I tell you something?"

Donna looked back at Mom's picture before I could say anything. "What you are doing here really moves me. Two days ago, I lost my mother-in-law. My husband and I had brought her here to live with us a couple of years ago. Her health had deteriorated so much."

"I am so sorry to hear that."

"Thank you," then slowly moving on, "My husband plays guitar in a Christmas show up at the other end of the beach. He had to play the night she passed because they did not have a replacement for him. I couldn't believe he went to play."

I sat there, enraptured in Donna's story, recalling how those first days after Mom passed were so overwhelming. "I can barely imagine how he felt playing that night."

"But, here is the thing," Donna added. "He has this huge part at the end of the show where the cast gathers around a fireplace on the corner of the stage. He plays the guitar as they sing carols while classic pictures of Christmas flash on a huge screen behind them."

I imagined sitting there, listening to the carols and remembering Christmases past. "That sounds like a great show."

Donna wasn't finished.

"When they started playing, the crew surprised my husband by putting a picture of his mother on the screen behind him. I started crying when he looked up to see her there." Donna glanced at Mom's picture and then back at me. "So when you did this tonight, I couldn't help but be moved."

 

"I don't know what to say. Thank you for sharing your story with me." I took an endless moment to consider the different emotions stirring in me. "You kind of make me feel normal pulling out this picture here." 

She nodded. "Hold on to those memories." Donna left me to my thoughts as she left for the kitchen.

The mood turned celebratory when Donna returned to the table with my meal, Mom's favorite at Chesapeake House. I dipped a crispy prawn into the sweet cocktail sauce and immediately ate one. Delicious. After tearing off the aluminum foil, I sliced the steaming baked potato down the middle, chopping up the insides before adding Mom's two pats of butter and two dollops of sour cream. 

Mom would always lecture me about chewing my food. I tended to gulp bites and finish before she ate half her meal. "You need to slow down when you eat. Chew your food." I took my time tonight, bite by bite, savoring each morsel in the spirit of a moment I wanted to last longer than it would.

The alligator pond was no longer visible. Darkness filled the wall alongside me, and emptiness crept onto the table. The glow of the candle near my picture frame remained steadfast, fortifying our meal for the remainder of the evening. For once, I felt comfortable and secure in my thoughts.

Life inevitably sends those we love into the darkness—not darkness in the evil sense, but darkness as in the unknown. As we search for their presence, we no longer see them but know they are with us. We find them again in our individual ways. They are there as we sing a Christmas carol, light a candle on a cold winter's night, listen to another person's tale of joy or loss, or glance at a picture in a dimly lit restaurant.