The Lady Of The Watch

The air was crisp and damp as she walked the familiar path towards the lake. She had taken it so many times, her body moved automatically. There was no thinking, only walking. The scent of rain hung in the air, a promise of refreshment for those that dwelled in the forest. She stopped, pulling a tree branch closer, inspecting the little bed of transformation that clung to its underside. It wouldn’t be long and the caterpillar would emerge, forever changed. Closing her eyes briefly, she offered a silent prayer of thanksgiving for the reminder. Continuing, she glanced at the lake peering through the trees. Not far now. The bench sat waiting, planted firmly on the ground for anyone who needed to stop and rest.

We are all on a similar journey, she thought to herself. Everyone goes into their cocoon of change at different points throughout their lives, but the final metamorphosis occurs only when one has truly released all that inhibits them. It is then that their eyes and hearts are fully open.

Reaching her destination, she sat down on her favourite bench and pulled out a paper bag. The bread was still warm. It’s’ sweet aroma rising, making her mouth water. Tearing off a few chunks, and breaking it up into small pieces, she fed the birds who had knowingly gathered around her.

“It’s not good for you, you know,” she said to them. “I can’t afford the seed this week, but soon.” She sat there in her faded blue jeans and sweater, watching them eat the crumbs she offered. What would become of them when she was gone? She had fed them since they were babies, and then they had babies of their own. Each had their own distinguishing qualities, if one cared to look close enough. Flower was her favourite, a speckled flicker. His specks looked more like small flower petals than the regular dashes you would normally find. Harry was a robin whose soft hairy tufts of fuzzy fur never left when his feathers came in. It made him appear old, though he was only three. He came back here every spring to her. Yes, all uniquely and wonderfully made, just as she.

The birds sensed the end of their daily feast. They always seemed to know when she would be there to feed them and when their meal was over. One by one, they moved on, leaving her in peace to eat her own portion. Bowing her head, she said her prayer of thanksgiving for the birds, the bread and all the hands that made it.

She remembered asking her mother why she blessed herself when she prayed in thanksgiving for a meal. Her mother had laughed and said, “I’m blessing all the hands. The farmers that till the soil and grow the wheat, and provide the eggs and milk. The millers who ground it to flour to make the bread and the hands get it to the store, and stock the shelves. And, you are right, for these hands of mine that can make it. We thank Him for everything.” She smiled at the memory as she munched on the bread she had baked with her own hands. “And the mothers who taught us,” she whispered and smiled again.

Looking at the water, she saw the mist hovering above the waves. It would soon evaporate. The sun was cresting over the horizon, offering a wonderful amber gold kiss to the lake with a hue of magenta at the edges. It was going to be a warm one after the rain. She always knew when there would be rain. One could smell it if they paid enough attention to the aromas carried on the breeze. She had smelled it earlier, and the scent still carried. It wouldn’t be a long one, but with it would come the damp humidity that clung to one’s skin, making them wish for a cool breeze. Her gaze went to the horizon once more, searching.

“I’ll be back. Watch the horizon and you’ll see me. You’ll know when it is time,” he had said. She hadn’t understood then. She was too young. As she got older, she knew he would keep to his promise. Theirs was an eternal bond, molded from a love formed long before they met.

Cancer took him early and left her alone in the world. Her parents had died in a boating accident shortly after her fourteenth birthday, leaving her orphaned. Having no siblings or children, she was alone in the world. When Marc died, she started coming to the bench, searching the horizon for him as if by some miracle he would be resurrected, and returned to her. She had prayed for that very thing every day for years after his death. Even then, she knew it was an ungrantable wish.

Over the years, she was able to let go of the grief, but her daily visits to the lake did not stop. It didn’t matter the weather, she could be found there sitting and watching. “I’ll be here, waiting,” she would whisper occasionally. She would tell him of her adventures from the day before, sharing all she had seen and done. Those that walked by would take a wider angle around her, mumbling their ‘good morning,’ thinking her crazy as she sat talking to no one, eating her bread.

One day a small child ran up to her, blurting, “Watch ya doing?” in the innocent way a child does, and she replied, “Watching,” and smiled back at him. His mother called him back and muttered a quick apology before scolding him for talking to the strangers. She heard him explain she wasn’t a stranger. “She’s the bench lady, and she’s watching. Let me go back. I want to know what she’s watching.” It wasn’t long after that she heard the kids say she was the “watcher lady,” as they pointed her out on their walks. She always smiled. That was how they came to call her The Lady of the Watch.

Midday was around the corner. Rising, she removed her sweater, stretched her now stiff legs, and turned, heading back the way she had come. No one knew exactly where that was. She lived in a broken-down shack, hidden by the forest. It had been beautiful once, but as she aged, it became harder for her to keep it up. Her childhood home. The home she shared for a short while with her husband, and her reprieve. Only the grocers knew her now.

At the end of the path, she turned and looked back before heading to mass. She would sit in the back pew, unnoticed by all. Here she would find peace and salvation. Here, she would find her true nourishment for the day. After mass, she would head home, napping as her body needed. There was no tv, only a radio for entertainment, and company. She looked around and thought about what cleaning she could do today. Everything, a bit at a time until the place was clean, and then she’d start again. Years ago, she had abandoned the basement and the upstairs, giving way to dust and cobwebs. Not good for the house, but she no longer had the energy after her walk to the lake, church, and back home. They were no longer her priorities. The main floor, however, was immaculate. A time capsule she kept for her very own.

Closing her eyes, she fingered the worn familiar beads as she recited her rosary. It brought her comfort. On this day, she did not get to complete it, but she did complete her final metamorphosis. In an instance, she was transported to the lake, and there, as promised, he came. She waved knowingly, noticing her hands were no longer old, but young once more.

“It took you long enough,” she whispered, embracing him.

“I was here all along. I heard every story. You just couldn’t see me.”

The light behind him grew until she could see nothing else.

“Your watch is over,” said the light. “It’s time to come home.”

Looking back, she smiled. The Lady of the Watch was no more. She was Sarah once more, and she was going home. Turning, she smiled at the light, “I’m ready, Lord,” and the light swallowed her, carrying Sarah and her beloved home.

 © Leslie C Dobson

If you liked this faith story you can find others on the Faith Stories link of Leslie’s website.