by Cynthia Reynolds

When my younger sister’s husband died suddenly, I stayed with her. Stayed right by her side 24/7. I slept by her side and even held her hand until she fell asleep. If I could have, I would have crawled inside her skin and absorbed as much of the pain as I could. But though I never left her and I spoke every word of comfort I knew into her ears and sighed deep sighs when she could barely breathe to bring her back to the moment, she walked that path alone. I tried every night to stay awake until I heard the even breathing of her stricken self. But after a few days of trying so hard to be there every second for her, I grew tired in spite of myself and then exhausted and faded earlier and earlier as the days went by. She walked that path alone even with me right there, right there. Eventually I had to get on a plane and go home to my family and other commitments. I knew that she had to be alone with it all and find some other source for her strength; some other resolve besides the one I was willing into her; some way through to the rim of the cup that was her suffering. And slowly I saw the gift in that, as I have slowly seen the gift of that in my own life. The enfolding embracing gift of alone.

The disciples slept while Jesus grappled with the night in Gethsemane. Maybe they tried to stay awake and pray. Maybe they used all their words of comfort. They had no idea what was coming, but they must have realized this was a different night. They probably wanted to stay awake for it. Be there for their teacher. But he walked the path alone. He found a resolve and a source of strength outside of them. Surrounded by his own creation that pulsed with his own divinity he  drew comfort in the continuum of eternity and came to rim of his own cup.