I can see her out there, fingertips wrapped around a red metal bucket, waiting in the February cold for a generous stranger to believe in her grandchildren the way she does.
Cissy. The woman for whom Ester was not enough.
Cissy. The woman for whom vegetables were just in the way of chocolate.
Cissy. The woman for whom the front row of the dance recital was too far away.
Cissy. The woman named after Christ.
But only after this world realized she deserved a little recognition for the blood, sweat and tears she poured into her dedication to people who drove her wild.
You see, her first name was Ester.
Ester like the star. The light guiding home. The twinkle in the night sky that reminds us she’s gone, so far gone, but still standing in my bedroom in Virginia, making me cry on a wild Wednesday morning.
The story goes she risked her life to save her people.
But she is more than a story. She is more than a name in a Bible we forget to dig up sometimes.
Oh, how much more she is.
She is standing in front of Virginia, hands on her hips, telling her that these tears falling from her eyes are just signs she cares about this little old world with problems too big to be tackled by a small girl.
She is standing in front of Virginia. Standing in Virginia. In Virginia’s smile and Virginia’s passion and Virginia’s loud personality.
She stands Elsewhere, too.
If this world could hand us light bulbs and tie them to strings and wait for them to fly into the sky and illuminate it, she would stand at the front of the line, wrapping electricity in her palms.
She would beg you to learn how to light the sky. Teach you to yell from the front of the auditorium. Coax you into believing in the power of tough, unapologetic love.
She would teach you about the world you thought you knew well. Would show you a thing or two about miracles, about bread turned into food for thousands, about freckles that paint pictures on your eyelids when you go to sleep at night.
She would teach you all of this from Elsewhere.
The Elsewhere we all wait for, hope to find at the end of a long life.
The end of a short one, too.
We stand in the shadow of her light. Her expiration date on earth means nothing but a little more time for everything she deserved after giving all she had.
She is up there. In Elsewhere. Stringing light bulbs atop our broken hearts, painting the glass in our church windows, illuminating paths we can’t yet see.
She is in so many places. In Virginia. By my side. On the street corners with a red bucket for donations. In the blue house. In the back of the cul-de-sac.
She is in the whispers that it will be OK. More than OK, baby, if you can’t find everyone an Elsewhere they’re happy with. If you can’t be there to save the world.
