I can still picture Mama Karissa standing in the kitchen and saying with a smile, as I swept up the remains of a broken glass bowl and apologized not for the first or last time, "Here, you learn to hold things with an open hand."
That was several months after we arrived in Cameroon. I've since carried her words with me into situations that seemed to need them, like when all the Djino was gone before I had some, or when the puppies tore a piece of my clothing, or when exciting plans were cancelled or altered. Now, Karen's words take on a deeper meaning, as all of us left here on earth struggle to deal with something that seems to have been ripped from our tightly closed fist.
No longer does the "here" refer to Cameroon or Africa, but life and earth in general. And no longer are the "things" just things, but can be those closest to us, those we feel we couldn't do without, but sometimes have to. Mommy Karissa knew how to keep her hand open, and was one of the most giving and content people I've ever known. In her book, there was always room for one more, always enough food to go around, always a second chance, always something special for everyone. She made coffee cake every Sunday morning because she knew I loved it so much, and and consulted me about which tea to buy and try out next. Despite the pain she dealt with on a daily basis, Karen always had a smile on her face and a laugh you could hear from all corners of the compound.
She was my "African mother" for eight months, and I won't soon forget her gentle and loving influence on everyone around her, including me. Neither will I forget the lesson of holding loosely that which we want to clutch tightly, a lesson that Mama Karissa taught with her life even more than she did with her words.
No comments:
Post a Comment