Documenting What I Cannot Change or Understand
She rises behind the lectern, carefully taking the steps. Each time, before she reads us our Sunday morning lesson, she flashes a smile our way. Not all lay readers approach their task with such lightness; some bring a decided solemnity to the event. Not her. We’ve walked with her through a recent journey—she’s lost an incredible amount of weight—and her joy spills over. Always a happy woman, she now almost glows.
*
I see him kneeling at the table during Hospitality Hour, knee to the oriental rug. He’s monitoring the little boy who sometimes reaches his hand to grab a treat from the laden table. Meanwhile, she cares for the little girl, splitting their resources like parents do. He’s a slight man, fair of complexion. The little boy has the same fair look, different from his mama’s dark hair and dark eyes. If he says anything to his son, I don’t hear it.
*
Her picture has appeared in the paper, one of those blown-up photos that result in a fuzzy, distorted image. Static, too: the same image, over and over again. Overcome with concern, I confess to the stranger seated beside me on the train, “A woman from my church is missing.”
“The kindergarten teacher?” she asks, and my heart sinks. Could this be real, this narrative that we all nudge along. Woman missing. Husband questioned. Tumultuous marriage of late, as though all divorces aren’t the most tumultuous times many of us ever face.
I remember her at a cross making workshop, enjoying the child-like activity as much as the daughter seated beside her. I didn’t know she was a kindergarten teacher, I didn’t know much at all. I remember each time I clicked “like” on the beautiful, smiling photos she posted, until I quit, embarrassed that I was making too big a deal out of how lovely she looked, as if she hadn’t been lovely enough before.
*
He appears on the evening news; his choice of their network puffs the reporters with pride. Under the “Husband Questioned” headlines his quiet demeanor has become unsettling—you know, his photos do look disturbed. Answering questions, he shifts his head from side to side, his gaze sliding away. When he says, his voice flat as a man on quaaludes, “I would never put my hands on her,” I wonder, who uses that kind of language? Then I think, is that the first time I’ve head him speak?
*
In my mind she rises from the behind the lectern. Like the “Have You Seen this Woman?” photo, my image of her is broken, snapped off from the stream of her life. A life I did not know, but a woman of whom I was very fond. They were a family, I thought, a part of our church family. Now with the answer to the only question that matters revealed, we know she will no longer lead us in our lessons on Sunday mornings. I dread seeing more images of her that I don’t want to be a party to. I will keep my own:
She rises from behind the lectern, happy, a little shy, and flashes us a smile.
May God rise to meet her coming.
disappeared, heather palumbo jones, husband questioned, woman missing
Carol Gardner
Thank you, Ellen.
Ellen Morris Prewitt
You’re welcome, Carol – what a terrible situation it is.
Marisa
What a beautiful way to process something so ghastly. I thank God for the melodies that rise from ash…it is how we raise our heads back up in the end.
Ellen Morris Prewitt
Processing is exactly what I was trying to do – writing it out, trying to deal. I don’t know any other way.
Bindy Snyder
Oh my beloved Cathedral has been through so much. Jerusalem, Jerusalem!
Patricia Geelan
Ellen- your words provided a touching tribute to Heather, a way for her St Mary’s family to remember her. I will always remember her and also Chris as they ushered with their son assisting at the offertory. Thank you for a catharsis for our grief, a thoughtful tribute to Heather. My heart breaks for her children and the troubled man that was a part of our St Mary’s family as well. Thank you!
Ellen Morris Prewitt
Yes, Patricia, this is the hard part: he was part of our church family, too.
Leanne
Amen, Ellen. Though I didn’t know Heather, I am so moved by the grace of our Cathedral family in this dark time.
Angela Massengale
Thank you, Ellen. I cannot think of Heather without that fabulous smile on her face and her raucous laughter. I will miss her so very much.
Wendy Trenthem
Thank you, Ellen. I often sit behind you at church and I have had the same experiences with knowing the Jones family through church but not really knowing them. It’s just heartbreaking. Bless you for articulating some of what many of us have been feeling.
Ellen Morris Prewitt
You’re welcome – So many have said that the confused emotions I expressed are shared – it makes me glad I wrote it.
Ellen Morris Prewitt
Thank you for letting me know – now I will know when we pass the peace
laura
beautiful, ellen. gifts to souls and hearts. i have shared this good writing of yours as a link on my fb page.
Ellen Morris Prewitt
Thanks, Laura, for believing this worth sharing
Kelley Morice
Without words and with tears in my eyes. Thank you for this Ellen.
Ellen Morris Prewitt
You’re welcome – I’m glad what I believed were very personal reflections meant something to others
Laura Houseal
Beautiful. Thank you. I didnt know her, but my heart aches for her family – especially her two precious children. Thank God they have a Godmother able to guide a d raise such sweethearts. Bless her soul, bless her children, bless their Godparents and bless you for publishing such a positive memory in the wake of such a horrid event.
Ellen Morris Prewitt
I’m glad my memories of Heather resonated with you – peace, Ellen