October 2002 Issue - Essay # 5
Rock
of Ages
By Cindy
Monserud
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The
first time I heard "Rock of Ages" I was four years old, sitting
between Mom and Dad at church. I was
wearing my black patent leather shoes, the ones that squeaked when I
rubbed them against each other. They were the shoes I only wore with my
white, ruffle-topped anklets or lacy tights. Mom kept them in a box on
the top shelf of my closet where I couldn’t reach them. I loved those shoes, but they got me in trouble sometimes. Every time I stretched my legs out in front of me during church and rested the shoes on the back of the pew in front of me, Mom pushed my legs down and gave me "the look." This made it nearly impossible to admire them during church. Sometimes I’d bend over at the waist to stare at the big wide toes. I knew I should be able to see myself in them, just like a mirror. I fell over once doing this, tearing a hole in my lacy tights. More trouble for me. I
was wearing these shoes when I first heard "Rock of Ages." Most of
the songs at church sounded the same to me. The organ was so thunderous
and seemed to shake the entire church when it played that I worried
about the stained glass windows. The beauty of those songs was in the
solemn volume the congregation added. The sound, so powerful it carried
me away anywhere I imagined. That day, when I first heard "Rock of
Ages," I looked over at my mom and was shocked to see her crying.
After church, on the walk down the big steps to the street, I asked Mom why she was crying. "When?" she asked, pretending not to know what I was talking about. My mom wasn’t herself when we were at church. It was if she was pretending to be a TV mom, like June Cleaver or Donna Reed. At home, she never wore a dress, or nylons, or those fancy shoes with heels. Church was for special clothes for my mom, too, just like my shoes. "During
that rock song,” I said. She smiled at me and picked me up to carry me
the rest of the way down the steps.
"That
song just reminds me of sad times," she said. She gave me a big hug,
took the last two steps in a hurried leap, and I knew the discussion was
over. Years
passed, and I know I heard that hymn over and over in church. After all,
it was a favorite in the old Midwestern Lutheran churches. But I don’t
remember seeing Mom cry again. I was glad. The helplessness I felt when
Mom cried left me empty for a long time. When
I was ten, my Uncle Vernon was really sick. Cancer. He was the only
family that my mom had left from her generation. Her parents--I never
even thought of them as my grandparents--died before I was born. Uncle
Vernon was the only person I knew who smoked all of the time and drank
beer at dinner every day. He usually skipped desert and had another
beer. I tasted it from his bottle once and had to spit it out. He was
also the only one who took me fishing, gave me a puppy without
consulting my mom, and let me sleep in my clothes when I stayed
overnight. Now
he was dying and Mom cried a lot. He was married to Aunt Dottsie, but
she didn’t seem like family. She
was 20 years older than Uncle Vernon and just not as fun. We went to see
him almost every day, Mom, my little brother, Ron, and me.
Uncle Vernon always had a candy treat for us and gave my little
brother Kennedy half dollars--just because he collected them. Sometimes
I wished I collected them, but I knew I couldn’t start now--my
motives would be obvious. Some
days Uncle Vernon was himself, laughing, playing with us and telling us
stories about Mom when she was my age. Sometimes his stories made my mom
sound like a brat. Like the time he told me about Mom wrecking her brand-new bike and then trying to paint it with barn paint so her mom wouldn’t
know. I couldn’t imagine Mom being a kid like that. But some days when
we visited, Uncle Vernon was in bed. He still smiled when he saw us, and
always told Ron where to find the half dollar. But I could tell he was
really sick and not faking it like I did sometimes.
Then
we got the call. They had taken Uncle Vernon to the hospital. Mom said
kids weren’t allowed to go visit him there. Later I learned Uncle
Vernon didn’t want us to see him so sick and cloud the happy memories.
Mom cried all of the time now. A few days passed and Mom came home from
the hospital looking so sad it frightened me. Dad sat down on the sofa
with her and gathered our family together. I can’t remember who said
the words, but Uncle Vernon had died. The next morning, Mom and Dad went
with Uncle Vernon’s wife to make the funeral arrangements. When they
came home Dad seemed to keep his arm around Mom all day, not just the
quick hugs he usually gave her. I heard them talking at the dining room table. "I don’t know why she had to pick that song," Mom said. She was still crying. Her eyes were so swollen and red that I hardly knew it was Mom. "I don’t know if I can hear that song one more time." Dad
didn’t know what to say. He just kept holding my mom as she cried.
Like me, Dad always seemed lost when Mom was so sad. At
the funeral, the family sat in a private room with one-way blinds. We
could see the funeral service but the rest of the visitors couldn’t
see us. Mom said it was for privacy so everyone didn’t have to watch
us cry. I thought Mom was all cried out. She hadn’t cried that
morning, keeping busy making sure us kids were bathed and dressed, with
our hair combed and our shoes clean. I was wearing black patent leather
shoes. Then
I heard the organist start to play "Rock of Ages," and Mom started
to tremble beside me. I looked up at her and the tears were flowing. Later
she told me that "Rock of Ages" had been played at the funerals of
both of her parents, and now her only brother. She hated that song. But
I knew it was the memories she hated. Soon
after Uncle Vernon died, Mom started to skip church. Eventually she didn’t
go at all unless one of her kids was doing something during the service. After
my younger brother graduated from high school, neither of my parents
went to church anymore. Part of their life that had once been so
important seemed to just disappear. Two
years ago, Mom died suddenly. I rushed home to Iowa to be with my dad
and brothers. And to bury my mother. We went to the same, small town
Iowa funeral home to make the arrangements. Now we were burying Mom,
only 72. Now I knew how she’d felt when her brother died ... and her
mom ... and her dad. By
now, I was the only one in my family active in a church. My parents had
never even met the pastor from their church, the man tasked with a
public farewell to my mother. I never understood, and still don’t, how
they could ignore their faith. The framework of belief was a steadying
shelter to me now. What could my brothers lean on? Where could my father
turn so he wouldn’t give up on life?
Questions that still haunt me. When
the funeral director asked what songs we wanted at the funeral, my
brother and sister-in-law suggested secular songs or just shrugged their
shoulders, as if anything would be okay. I knew Dad couldn’t even
think about such a detail after losing his life mate of 51 years. "Rock
of Ages," I said. No one else said anything. "Did
your mom like that hymn?" my sister-in-law asked, trying to break the
silence. I
couldn’t believe no one else knew the connection. I didn’t bother to
explain. "It just needs to be played," I said.
Near
the end of the service, the familiar sound of that great old hymn filled
the room with memory and meaning. I wasn't ashamed of my tears. The pain
was there. The emptiness was there. It was real. And I needed to feel
it. And Mom needed to hear
it one last time. |
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Author's Biography I am a 40-something woman, living near Denver, Colorado. I have recently started my own home-based business, CyMon Companies, which includes free-lance writing, marketing and communications services, as well as an online retail store: http://cymon.zoovy.com In addition to my business, I enjoy reading, quilting, needlework and participating in the metamorphosis of our teenage daughter into a beautiful adult. I am a graduate of Iowa State University. E-mail Cindy at c_monserud@yahoo.com
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