The Twisted Handle | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: The Twisted Handle | Previous Challenge Entry
By Wanda Draus
09/04/14
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It was a long five days but particularly the last two. Friends, neighbors, our church family, all coming to mom’s house, dropping off casseroles or just stopping by to see if I needed anything.

My mom was beloved by all who had the honor to know her or just cross her path. I managed to get through the phone calls, the preparation of the funeral and the final good-bye by God’s strength, I had none left.

Now the house was dead silent, the leftover casseroles put away and everyone back to their lives, as it should be. I walked through the dim lit rooms of mom’s house with such heaviness. What was this feeling of such profound loneliness such utter helplessness? I wanted her to be out of pain, I wanted her to be with our Lord, but why such unbelievable heartache?

With my knees curled to my chest, I sat for hours at her kitchen table. The table where I did my homework, where we made Christmas cookies, where she taught me how to sew and cut a pattern, and where not to long ago we planned my wedding-always ending our times together with a cup of tea.

I could hear my mom now, “Bethie, put the kettle on and tell me what’s on your heart.” We solved many of the world’s problems, or so we thought, as we laughed, cried and prayed while having our tea. From the time I was a little girl my mom had her favorite cup and saucer that she brought from Ireland years ago. She never tired telling me the story of her favorite cup.

Papa and Momma had been out one afternoon during their courting days, browsing the many shops in the small village of Lucan in South Dublin. Excited, Papa came upon this cup and saucer. “Momma, look at this cup.” Momma looked at the beautiful rolling green hills and sunset that were hand painted on the cup and the matching swirls of color on the saucer. “No momma, look at the handle.” Momma looked more closely, the cup had two handles, close together, intertwined, forming one handle. Papa told momma, “we are like this handle, two souls twisted together to form one.”

I sat alone with my wonderful memories of Papa who had passed years ago and now Momma. The rays from the setting sun shone through the kitchen window, specs of dust dancing in the light. I put the kettle on and poured my self a cup of tea. I sipped slowly from the cup with the rolling green hills and the twisted handle, and told my mom what was on my heart.

I thank my God upon every remembrance of you. Philippians 1:3 (KJV)

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