Beauty for Ashes - Part 3

“To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that he might be glorified." Isaiah. 61: 3


Kirsten Hinckley lost her life on February 12th 2007 at Trolley Square. Today her father, Steve, and his family, these trees of righteousness, these plantings of the Lord will stand in the wind, bend low to the ground and lay her to rest.

* * *

I don’t remember the exact day when he asked me, but I remember his words and the images flodding my mind when he said, “ You’re the poet - will you write something for Kirsten’s funeral?”

At first I think maybe he is asking this because he wants to give me a task, something to help me feel less helpless. I give him an opportunity to take it back, but add I would be honored to write for him, for her. “Of course, I won’t be offended if you don’t use it or if it isn’t quite what you want.” He says it would mean a great deal to him if I would do it.

When I hang up the phone I feel like the little drummer boy who has nothing but this one gift to offer. And it doesn’t feel like much in the face of the enormous loss he and his family have suffered, but it is what I have to give. Perhaps the only thing I can really do to help.

* * *

I begin to imagine Kirsten’s arrival in heaven. All the master painters, DaVinci, Renoir, Cassatt are waiting, engaged in lively discussion about who would be chosen to paint her portrait, the great work that god has commissioned. Then I see Kirsten sitting like the Girl With The Pearl Earring, Vermeer poised with a palette in his hand, light shining through an ethereal non-window.

He looks at her from behind an easel, sunshine draping her shoulders, asks about her life, her loves. The artist offers a prayer. Then Jesus bends to whisper something in his ear. The room had been prepared for a moment in time when light would spill through atmosphere just so. But Kirsten came early to heaven, so the artist rises, moves the easel to the opposite corner.

There are other images too - the artist paints a midnight sky behind her and when he adds the stars he punches holes in our own midnight sky and a child on earth notices a new star. . .

I ask Steve about Kirsten’s birth and learn that she was premature, that the appartment had flooded that day and Kirsten’s mother’s water broke. I see Kirsten coming into life through blood and water - a tiny, glowing angel child. Kirsten’s friends tell Steve what they love most about her and I see her eating food in layers, saving the best for last. One of the girls says, “Her smile makes me want to love life.” The title of the poem becomes: “The Girl With Her Father’s Smile.”

There are other thoughts, other images and all of it combined makes for several beautiful phrases, but as I write I struggle to find my voice. The poem doesn’t sound like me, doesn’t read like a poem. The images fall through emotions onto the page, become blurred, fuzzy around the edges. The structure isn’t right. It feels like too much to do, too much life to try to compress into a single page. And there are time constraints. I feel incapable of doing what I so much want to do for Steve, for his beautiful daughter. I send up a prayer and send the draft to a few trusted poet friends asking for impressions.

Helen calls me and says, “You could change a few words to create some internal rhymes. Mary says, “ You know, the real Master Painter should be the one creating her portrait.” Rynell reminds me, “Sometimes those first few stanzas are just about getting the words going. I like the third stanza, it would take some rearranging, but I think it would work well for your beginning.” I spend some time with the phrasing, try to open my heart, relax and listen.

Suddenly “Her Father’s Smile” comes into focus. In fact, it seems to present itself almost in finished form within minutes. Later when I’m talking with Cindy, another writer, she says, “Don’t you think that art in all its forms is a way for heaven to spill into the world?” I agree and add something about how all things are created spiritually first. Then she wonders allowed, “Maybe you wrote the poem before. Maybe you knew Kirsten before and there is a reason you are where you are right now. Maybe the poem is the reason . . .”

With blessings and prayers for Steve, Kirsten, Kaitlin, Scott, Parker and all who love them.




With Her Father’s Smile
For Kirsten

The room had been prepared
for a moment in time when light
would spill through atmosphere just so,
cleansing the air, illuminating it for her portrait.

But Kirsten comes too early to heaven,
so the master moves his easel,
finds the right light,
eases the palette in his hand.

God commissioned a great work,
has waited only a while for the
young woman with a smile that moves
everyone around her to love life more.

The master mixes oils. Angels
sing the color of her name
as great grandmother Hinckley
brings her to the chair.

He paints a midnight sky on linen,
dips his brush again and lifts
his eyes to find her dancing,
chooses shades of moonlight for her hair.

She remembers before they came to earth,
her older sister found that hue
on tips of cherubs’ wings, had promised
to share it with her. And she did.

She speaks of eating food and living life in layers,
saving the best for last; of laughing with friends,
loving them first. He layers laughter
in her eyes between lapis, green and gray.

She smiles. Oh, that smile - so like her father.
The artist’s golden brush brings pink to canvas,
then, drawing through crimson,
curves the corner of her mouth with daybreak.

He swirls stars behind her,
and heaven quiets when she tells
how she began in the world,
unfurled too early, how her parents

welcomed her through blood and water.
And now, just the other night,
how they readied her for the master,
sent her home, washed clean with their tears.