Faith And Friendshipa True Story Poem by Daniel Brick

My mother's first job and her deepest
friendship coincided like a happy fate.
She and Doris worked at a pharmacy/fountain
in an oddly shaped, narrow building where
six streets intersected in St. Paul.
Did these converging streets increase business,
or accidents? They joked about this, and
many other things, possessed of the same sense
of humor, the same domestic intentions,
the same sturdy moral standards. It was
an ideal friendship, and it flourished
after their marriages, after each became
a mother of a boy and a girl. This was
that blessed friendship that parallels
the longevity of family ties and a true
marriage. But blessings are not immortal.
And Doris's early death from cancer was
a sword of sorrow that pierced the hearts
of the many who loved her. I was too young
to comprehend my mother's grief, but I remembered
witnessing it. And later, when I understood
how grief dogs our lives, I belatedly felt her pain...

My Mom and I sat in chairs across the desk
from a young priest, the assistant pastor. He kept
checking a slim black booklet with gold lettering.
His conversation with my Mom was tense, there were
no smiles. The issue was very simple: Would our parish
church, The Nativity of the Blessed Virgin, allow
my Mom to attend her best friend's funeral service?
It was a vexed issue, with our family being Roman Catholic,
and Doris's Lutheran. The young priest, still consulting
the black booklet, finally said, "Bernadine, you can attend
the service, but you must remain seated throughout, and
under no circumstances can you participate in the Lutheran
service with prayers or singing."

As my Mom and I sat stolidly in a middle pew, many of
Doris's family members greeted her. They knew this
had been a beautiful friendship. "God bless you, Bernie, "
I heard again and again. And my Mom's repeated "Thank you's"
brought tears to her eyes. The theme of the service, those
greetings, the minister's sermon was, "They will know
we are Christians by our love." But my Mom and, of course,
the eight-year-old son beside her remained silent and
strangely disengaged. Until a small miracle occurred.
Or was it a rebellion? The minister said, "Let us rise
and recite the Our Father for Doris's soul." And my Mom
stood with her fellow Christians and recited the prayer
Jesus himself taught humanity. I quickly rose and joined
the recitation with the third line: "... Thy Kingdom come.
Thy Will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven...."
I was so proud of my Mom for this gesture of love,
which transcended whatever that slim black booklet required
the priest to ordain. I am sure an angel hovered near-by my Mom,
giving her consolation: "Bernadine, your friend was a good and
just woman. She lives now and forever in God's favor."
Amen to that.