I trust you with my precious Lyndi
This planet is a dangerous place to live
I know that you will come soon to fetch us
I wish it were today
But I will wait for your time.
The organ sounds the postlude as the pallbearers gather around the casket to carry Lyndi to the cemetery, a young black friend leading the parade. Taking turns - down the hill and over the dam wall, we walk the long stretch of road. The rope handles chaffing, but nothing is too much trouble to bear our precious child to her resting place. Beside us the sloped vineyard bakes in the summer sunshine and beyond, the wall of the Helderberg Mountains rise as if to protect us.
Carrying Lyndi’s casket to the cemetery
Thoughts flood my every step; like Sunday morning tennis and driving on this same road in the opposite direction; I’d been awash with the happiness and contentment that Ant and Lyndi were home and asleep, or sometimes Lyndi had made a foursome with the grups - grown-ups. Her tennis like her life was a steady, consistent playing of the ball. My mind is grappling with what it will be like to never speak to her again, never hear that laughter or feel her arms twined around me, in a long embrace. No more looking into those bright brown eyes, thanking God for her safety and health. The thought of her perfect teeth comes to me, each one a pearl that has never needed a filling or bracing. Now she doesn’t need them any longer so what does it matter. At that moment, the futility of life seems overwhelming - nihilism beckons with a gnarled finger. I resist knowing that this darkness must pass. But, in the days and weeks to follow I have to deal with the impulses to phone, to share something unique or call in at her flat with a treat,
“Let’s take in a movie Mooksa” or “Let’s go a-shoppin’” and the dreams that are so real – the nightmare is in waking up. Perhaps it is all meaningless?
Then on special occasions like her birthday when her chair is empty or at the time of her friends’ weddings when I feel devastated that we hosted a funeral instead of a wedding! I read a cameo written by a dear friend capturing the essence of that day and meaning returns with a flourish:
Uncle Billy Mason, Ginn and Ian
It was Monday, January 3 of the new year – the year of the vote, the year of hope. Yet the dawn did not celebrate this new morn - it dragged its rays behind it, behind the Helderberg – while white and grey clouds moved silently, determinedly over the puffy eye’d sky. Would it actually rain?
But then, for a flickering instant, I remembered hope …. And the rain? Well, it stayed away. For this was Lyndi’s day … And this is my point of view.
Ian stood at the open door, shaking hands, welcoming people – an invitation to a tragedy. Opposite was Stella, skitterende - sparkling Stella, eyes red, sparkling not now, wearing a tender smile, handing out bulletins – handing out proudly the memory of her best friend – and with it, she handed me comfort.
Johann, you were the next I saw. There were the pews, a mass of faces – but that was a blurry view – you and your grief were clear to me. An embrace, all words lost when the plain pine casket I saw, reality staring me in the face. A slap, a bolt from the blue --- and then Ant Babes, I saw you in the front pew. Heel-toe - heel-toe; walking a difficult thing to do, your hand pointing to a seat next to you. “We’ll see her again,” you consoled. And I loved you.
Then there was the queue –waiting suddenly easy to do – I wanted an obscured view. Reluctantly joining the line to confront reality, the inevitable truth of this life dawned on me – for Lyndi lay at rest before me, but life in her was no more ….
Mint green Ginn, fresh as morning dew, was the colour you chose, guarding your child and friend for this last time. You greeted people with individual kindness, almost smile, whilst a broken rhythm beat a bottomless hole in your heart. An embrace, words of cheer to still my restless soul – the grace of God making you whole.
How well Stella remembered Lyndi, how well was her recall, her friend, 13 years true, belonging not only to her but to all. Love thus shared is unconditional, divine. Still, others spoke, some read lines, many more would bring homage to the precious influence of a daughter of our time.
Grace, eternally amazing, a congregational anthem raised, sounds sweetly sad, old but still new, humbling once lost souls. How well I then believed.
Your prayer Ginn, intensely personal which you shared, revealed your relationship with your Heavenly Father, your love for Lyndi, your compassion for the world and hope for us all. Thank you.
Sketching Lyndi’s life Johann, you bravely unleashed words from deep within your heart. Your honesty touched me, Ant was there holding you, and you were brave. Ant, blonde, pony-tailed youth, more at home riding the crest of a wave, crestfallen now, spirit wise in grief, Thank you both.
“Lyndi’s death was not the will of God!” Ian declared, unstopping ears with a repeat. His talk was personal, complete, no-frills to absorb the heat - only us. A celebration of a life, not a list of sorrow … the promised salvation, the return of the Lamb – uplifting, encouraging – hold on, go on, despite the fall, hope resting in the soul. It was then that I caught the beat, almost annoyed, my growing despair spoiled. God it seemed is quite misunderstood.
To the gravesite we walked, hundreds of souls, media attention fanning the college street. Pall-bearers changed hands under a blue and white blanketed sky as leather-peaked, and briskly you strode Ginn, to join the shared weight of the coffin of your resting child. It was then I smiled.
Once again, Ian spoke, this time in nature’s scene, looking forward to the end of time – the advent of our Lord – the reunion of souls, of bodies made new. He clearly saw Lyndi in the queue, a little ahead of you all.
And hope new filled my soul, as you, Johann and Ant (and others) using spades, heaped soil into the open grave. For this is but Lyndi’s temporary stay, a quiet wait for her gentle soul, awakening to the sound of the last trumpet call …
With sadness in my heart, but in eternal hope.
Patricia Bonthuys 1994
1945-1958 Farm Girl
Are they cows or are they bulls?
Towards the end of the Second World War Viccie and Bill are praying for peace. Viccie is pregnant for the third time, and the prayer includes a plea; that this time it will be a girl to name Jeanette. Jeanette MacDonald is the famous voice that blends so well with Nelson Eddie’s to sing ‘Rose Marie I love you’ and other well-known ballads. Radio and occasional newspapers are the only media available to the rural areas of South Africa; Bill listens to the news at least twice a day to keep abreast of the war and any significant changes in the weather. While Viccie surreptitiously listens, whenever she is doing household chores which the Xhosa maid is not allowed
