The pictures that I found the other day are haunting me, one in particular hangs in front of my eyes. I remember seeing them for the first time months ago, looking over Doug’s shoulder at his computer screen as he advanced through the pictures. I couldn’t breathe for what seemed the longest time.
I am beginning to recognize the tell-tale signs of when it is time to take another step in the darkness, I know I have to look at the pictures again and let the details sink in, face the visions and find a place for them. I do not believe that there will ever be peace with how Justin died. The violent means of his death, the absence of eye witnesses, not knowing his last thoughts, his last words…there will not be peace, but I do have to reconcile with the violent way he died and somehow make room for its existence in my being.
I stare at one picture, magnifying it and sharpening the details of the muddy object in the picture. Realization of what I was looking at racked my body. Tears fall, I wish that I could reach out to brush the mud away. I think of Doug who was alone when he walked the accident scene coming across the muddied objects that either floated to the shore from Justin’s car, or were thrown from the car. Questions plague your mind, was the card in Justin’s suit coat, did he keep it in his visor, why this particular card out of all that could have been left behind?
A simple reminder to me,
Of the fact that I am a Christian;
No matter where I may be.
Nor is it a good luck charm,
It isn’t meant to protect me;
From every physical harm.
It’s not for identification;
For all the world to see,
It’s simply an understanding;
Between my SAVIOR and me.
When I put my hand in my pocket;
to bring out a coin or key,
The cross is there to remind me;
Of the price HE paid for me.
It reminds me too, to be thankful
For my blessings every day,
And to strive to serve Him better
In all that I do or say.
It’s also a daily reminder
Of the peace and comfort I share
With all who know my Master
And give themselves to His care.
So, I carry a cross in my pocket
Reminding none but me
That Jesus Christ is Lord of my life,
If only I’ll let Him be.
I want to go and walk the road where he died, stare at the pond, look at the sky. I don’t know what I expect to find, I just know that I want to see the place, to lay flowers down – to get as close as I possibly can get to
the reeds and marshy ground. I ask Doug if by chance he picked the card up out of the mud, he couldn’t remember at first, but he thinks he left it there, it seemed right to him that he should leave the card there in the mud and reeds. My heart quivered for a moment, still desperate for any scrap of memory, any tangible possession that can be held – I wish that he had said yes, that he had forgotten that he had picked it up and could go and pull it out of a safe place.
I have always wanted to go and mark the spot with a small wooden cross, a small remembrance – then I realize that a cross already marks the spot and has from the first moment of his death, not so big as the world can see, but there buried in marsh and reeds.
This made me cry. I have always loved the “Cross in my Pocket” poem. Somewhere I have one or two of those wooden coins they printed a while back. I am guessing the early 80s since I remember the priest who first introduced it to me. The picture is beautiful and a lovely thought to know there is a cross marking the spot, not for all the world to see as in the poem.
Love you dear friend! Sending you a hug.