The Gathering

We linger at the table, afternoon sunshine streaking in the windows, coffee cups in hand. The little girls, hands washed, have left for play. The weekly "Gathering" at Sunday noon, a tradition of Sabbath, is waning.

Conversation wanders to our corporate loss, a month ago. Keren’s absence is palpable at this point when she would have lingered with us, unable to go and play alone. Tears are still close to the surface for her parents, the Dreamer and the Engineer.

They tell us of a letter they received this week from an older woman, an honorary auntie of the Engineer’s childhood. Over thirty years ago this woman stayed with the Engineer and his older brother in a time of family trouble. His dad and mom, due with her third child, had flown to the capital city for an emergency delivery. Word came back by radio to the remote Central African village that the little girl was stillborn. The adults mourned, but this “auntie” was asked to leave the telling to the little boys for their father and his return.

Three decades later the Dragon was caring for her nieces when she received word that their sister was gone. Like the auntie in Africa, she had to backpedal and keep the information to herself till their father came home to tell them.

In Africa, the auntie looked for a way to prepare the little boys without telling them. She took them on a walk around the center that included a postage stamp cemetery where another child had been buried. Carefully she talked about the little boy who had died and where he was.

A month ago the Dragon talked with her nieces about the house being prepared for them in Heaven, something they brought up and wanted to discuss. A house that their sister would go to first, but they didn’t yet know that.

The Engineer remembers his father coming home, relieving the auntie of her charges, and telling him about the little sister who would never come home. And he now speaks of coming home himself and telling his own children about their sister who would never come home.

Tears are close to the surface. For him. For all of us.

The Gathering is a tradition of many generations. A time to stop in the busyness of the week and sit back to eat and drink together, to talk. Though some weeks it doesn’t happen, it is still well worth the effort when it does. Sabbath is a lost convention. Conversation, a lost community. Sorrow and joy, something best shared face to face.

The Gathering will continue. The little ones will grow and stay longer at the table, punctuating the conversation with their ideas. Like their parents, they will someday become the adults, and perhaps, if they are wise, they will institute a Gathering of their own.

A time for tears and a time for laughter. A time for everything.