It’s Easter morning. Resurrection day. I know my Redeemer lives.
But my friend has died. We received word over the weekend of Anita’s death, and the loss lies heavy on my heart. The poem that has been speaking to me is one C. S. Lewis wrote on the death of his friend, Charles Williams. This is appropriate as we spent many hours with Don and Anita discussing the works of C. S. Lewis. We’ve read this poem aloud together. I share it now.
“To Charles Williams”
Your death blows a strange bugle call, friend, and all is hard
To see plainly or record truly. The new light imposes change,
Re-adjusts all a life-landscape as it thrusts down its probe from the sky,
To create shadows, to reveal waters, to erect hills and deepen glens.
The slant alters. I can’t see the old contours. It’s a larger world
Than I once thought it. I wince, caught in the bleak air that blows on the ridge.
Is it the first sting of the great winter, the world-waning? Or the cold of spring?
A hard question and worth talking a whole night on. But with whom?
Of whom now can I ask guidance? With what friend concerning your death
Is it worth while to exchange thoughts unless—oh unless it were you?