Page 136 of Every Good Thing
“Yeah, besides, what if I change my mind about you bouncing my folks?” Dot adds with a shrug.
I take a position next to Lena. Ruthie reaches out, her tiny face drooping with sadness. I lift her into my arms, and she rests her head softly on my shoulder. We file into the sanctuary and take the reserved section up front, me on the very end near the outer wall.
Rain hits the church roof, a fitting drumbeat to the occasion. Reverend Jenkins gives a warm welcome, shares about Mrs. Moore’s life, and peppers his sermon with Bible verses she provided in her detailed instructions.
After a prayer, the normal pianist moves aside for the woman in a rush earlier—one of Mrs. Moore’s former students, Reverend Jenkins introduces. At the piano, she performs “Ode to Joy” from Beethoven’s ninth symphony. I’m grateful that I can still hear the music, but mostly, I feel it in my chest. It stirs my emotions, kicking up everything that felt settled at the bottom. My hand slips over Lena’s beside me—I can’t help it. Her cast is gone, and I run my fingers over her delicate fingers, wrist, and arm, where her newly exposed skin feels strangely softer, if possible.
She should reject me. That’s what I expect. She believes I’ve committed the worst crime in a marriage. To her, my affection must incite betrayal and anger.
So, when her fingers interlock with mine, her wedding rings sliding between them, my breath catches and holds in amazed disbelief. She still loves me. Even now. She’s said it all along, but in that simple action—letting me hold her hand—her promises finally crystallize into absolute truths.
Whatever your reality, I’m with you, and I’ll try to make it better.
You belong here. With me.
I’m yours, always. No matter what.
You are enough. You are all we need.
The revelation astounds me—that she could love me that much, even after the million and one ways I’ve hurt her. It’s like… damn, fireworks. My throat constricts, and wetness dampens the corners of my eyes. I glance at our joined hands and then at her, her glassy blue eyes catching mine like a light through a long, dark tunnel. The song nears its crescendo, but more powerful is her thumb running softly over mine and the small smile she offers me.
Dot pulls her attention away from me, and a whispered discussion ensues between them. I refocus on the music to keep tears from falling. The music soon ends, and generous applause shakes the small sanctuary despite being a funeral. Mrs. Moore would approve, I think.
Reverend Jenkins clears his throat, giving Dot her cue to come to the podium for her eulogy.
But nothing happens.
Lena’s gentle coaxing doesn’t get Dot to her feet. At first, I think it’s nerves about seeing her dismissive, intolerant parents. But, leaning over, I read her lips as she says, “This is the last thing I’ll do for her, Lena. The last thing.”
Identify the problem. Solve the problem. Simple.
I stand and approach the podium.
The room quiets. Dot and the rest stare up at me with gaping apprehension. Dot mouths to Lena, “What’s he doing?”
The truth is, I don’t know. But when Lena smiles reassuringly and says, “Giving you time, Dot,” purpose and duty drive me onward.
I clear my throat. “I’m not much of a public speaker… or even a private one.”
Laughs.
“But for Mrs. Moore—a mom to Lena for the last five years, to her niece Dot much longer, and a surrogate grandmother to Ruthie—it’s not difficult finding words, even for me.”
Laughs.
“Mrs. Moore was a mean card player. That’s how I best knew her. I looked forward to our canasta nights and planned my gameplay against her with military precision, knowing she was a keen strategist. She would disarm me with her dainty smile and incredible crab dip before going in for the kill, winning most of the time.”
Laughs.
“One night, a terrible migraine threatened to end our game early—I get them often. Standing in Mrs. Moore’s kitchen, she said, ‘Most troubles, we can’t change, but we can count it all joy, Ben.’ I disagreed at the time but said nothing. It felt impossible to find joy in a migraine. Sometimes, pain takes over, graying what’s usually so vivid and clear and making it hard to feel anything else. Now, I understand what she meant—finding joy within the troubles… It’s holding on to what you love through the pain instead of giving in to it. That’s what life is—an ode to joy.”
My eyes fall to the podium. I take a deep breath, centering myself. Returning to the crowd, I find Lena, her encouraging smile beckoning me on, as it has a thousand times. Only this time, my words come easily.
“We just heard “Ode to Joy” from Beethoven’s ninth symphony. He was almost completely deaf when he composed it, and it’s said to be his greatest masterpiece. When he conducted it in Vienna, he couldn’t hear the applause.”
My throat tightens. A beat passes.
“I’m nearly deaf—a circumstance that has troubled me and caused uncertainty and hardship for those I love most. I have not handled myself well, something I will forever regret and strive to rectify. I am surrounded by a community, neighbors, friends and family, like Mrs. Moore, who have loved and supported me without hesitation while I’ve failed to count it all joy.”
