On Wings of Eagles “I have a gift for you,” Clay Mathews said, his arms outstretched, presenting me with something he’d wrapped in a silk cloth. “It was blessed by the elders during a ceremony.” Clay was a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. His chiseled, high cheekbones told of generations of Klamath Indian strength he’d descended from. His gentle smile touched my heart and his words promised me, “This will protect you always.” He nodded light-heartedly but with genuine emphasis, adding, “This gift is highly connected.” When I unwrapped the scarf, I saw a mostly brown eagle feather with thin white highlights on one side and much less white near the tip opposite it. The white coloring was far more prominent on the bottom where the feather was fuller; the quill disappeared into tightly wrapped bleached leather. I didn’t know how to respond but managed to thank him, “I feel honored to have received such a treasure.” I knew eagle feathers are sacred among tribal members, so the gift was remarkable on several levels. Clay was cordial but obviously anxious to make the journey back home after the seminar we had attended wrapped up. As we parted I thought I would surely see him again. These past years I’ve thought of him often especially each time the eagle feather has reminded me of the hidden powers of the universe, the promise of hope and love, and the knowledge that we are all connected and especially of my connection to my son, Nick, who was killed just before I met Clay at the seminar. It was as if he intuitively knew of my grief, recognized the sorrow hidden to others as I struggled to climb from the abyss of darkness I had fallen into after Nick’s death. In time, I learned that Klamath Indians seek spiritual power in vision quests that take place during life crises, especially periods of mourning. Nick’s death led me from work in the insurance industry back to school where I studied for a career in juvenile corrections. The training seminar where I met Clay was part of that training. Privately, I was grasping for reasons to keep breathing because nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Life as I knew it had ended May 1, 2007. I can still remember my daughter’s helpless, disbelieving words over the telephone miles away in Arizona. She called to tell us Nick is hurt, her voice restrained. My husband Richard and I raced to the airport after hurriedly throwing a few clothes in a suitcase, making flight reservations over my cell phone as we drove to Portland. We were just 20 minutes from home when a sense of complete peace washed over me and I felt Nick’s presence assuring me he was okay. Turning to my husband, I said with relief, “Nick’s okay. He’s okay.” Then the phone rang again and my daughter told us--her brother was dead. I struggled to understand. My husband pulled the car over, parked, and silently covered his face with his hands. It couldn’t be. Nick had just called me earlier that day to say he knew what he wanted to do next, and that he would be home by Mother’s Day. The plan was to return to school and finish his bachelor’s degree and learn to write screen plays. Nick was home by Mother’s day, buried near our cabin in the Cascade foothills where he had spent his entire life playing in a hundred acres of woods, experiencing the wonders of nature, lively family gatherings, the changing of the seasons and the love of his family. A month prior to visiting his sister in Arizona, he looked at a photo collage of him and his sister on one of our many family camping trips, “I had a great childhood Mom, ” he said, and I have held onto that memory, especially when I miss him most and wonder endlessly what I could have done differently. While going to college, Nick had worked full-time stocking shelves for a soft drink company and taken out a life insurance policy through the Teamsters Union. Richard and I decided that money would best benefit his sister. We needed to keep her grounded, looking forward, and continuing her education. One of those diversions came when we purchased a horse trailer with living quarters and a beautiful quarter horse named Dee Dee. When Dee Dee’s papers arrived in the mail, it took my breath away to learn she’d been born May 1. It was as if Nick had found Dee Dee for his sister, the person he had taken a photograph of standing under a rainbow. Under it, he had written, “Stefani is my lifetime best friend and the best person I know.” Some people judged us foolish for spending so much money on a horse and trailer for barrel racing instead of paying her college tuition first. But I had never known two humans who loved each other more, and my heart ached for my 18-year-old daughter as she struggled with the greatest loss she had ever faced. After a brief escape to the Northwest Territories with her closest girlfriend, Stefani announced she wanted to move back to Arizona with Dee Dee and go to school. It was a nasty winter when we loaded the horse and Stefani’s belongings into the trailer and headed to Casa Grande. It took three days just to get to the Oregon-Nevada border during a blizzard, which required putting chains on and taking them off several times a day. In Central Oregon, we slid off the road after hitting an icy patch and stood outside the truck until help arrived. I shivered while Richard struggled to wrap a giant chain around the rig to the rear of a huge tractor. Friends gathered around as a cowboy from the ranch where we had spent the night climbed into the trailer to free Dee Dee. My daughter’s friend who was accompanying us declared it was too dangerous to climb into the trailer as Dee Dee thrashed around inside, trying to get her footing. Another friend put her arms around me as her husband pointed to the sky and said, “Look, it’s an eagle!” as it was circled high above the trailer. “It’s in God’s hands,” the friend said and I remembered Clay’s promise of protection and the eagle’s feather. But I kept thinking Dee Dee was supposed to help Stefani get on with life. We can’t lose her, too. Not now, I thought. Then, miraculously, Dee Dee emerged, upright with barely a scratch before the tractor pulled the 26-foot trailer out of the ditch onto its wheels as if nothing had happened. I looked up to smile at the majestic bird of prey, but it was gone. Pray, I thought, as I offered gratitude for our rescue. The rest of the journey went well. In Arizona we set up Stefani’s trailer on a friend’s ranch and she and Dee Dee settled in before we said good-bye and headed to the airport. It was very difficult to leave my daughter behind, especially here, where we had lost our son. The airline messed up our seating assignments and Richard and I were separated on the flight home. Even more agitated and upset, I sat between two strangers and tried to calm myself and not cry as we gained altitude high above the Arizona desert. Looking for something to distract myself, I reached for the airline magazine in the seat pocket and just happened to open it to an article about eagles and gasped when I read the author’s byline—his first name was Nick. Again, I suddenly felt calm as if my son was wrapping his arms around me, assuring me, “It’ll be okay, Mom.” The young man on my left slept the entire trip, leaning on me and drooling a bit. The gentleman on my right commented on my luck at being squished by the sleeping 200-plus pound boy. I let him know it was actually comforting and I shared my story of how much I loved my son. Our flight became rough after awhile, as the plane shook violently and bounced around as if we were sliding down a mountain full of moguls. A few people cried out and I turned to look back where Richard sat with an unfamiliar look of concern on his face. Later I’d overhear him tell our neighbor he thought the plane might crash. About that time, the stranger at my right leaned into me, his voice a little shaky as he recited Isaiah 40:31, “But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles, they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.” Reminded of the promise again, Clay’s message was magnified. With faith there is strength to endure. I asked what had possessed him to recite that particular verse. He said he was a pastor who is often directed to recite certain scripture to others, adding, “This is the verse you needed at this time.” The aircraft continued to dip side to side as we soared through the turbulence but now I felt lifted and was not weary. I realized the world would never, ever feel right again. The ocean would never sound the same; the sun would never bring the same warmth I had previously loved. But when I finally embraced my sadness by accepting I would never be the same until I left this world and once again held my son, I experienced calm. I would honor my son’s life by living until the day when I would breathe my last breath and know I was about to see Nick again. The grief remained, but I was centered within like the eye of a storm, feeling Nick’s presence urging me on. One morning I arrived at one of six different jobs I had in four years following Nick’s death and found one of the parole officers asleep, his head on the desk. He was startled when I spoke to him and explained he had stayed all night rather than drive the long distance home after working a second job. I noticed a beautiful piece of artwork in the room, an eagle, framed with scripture. He smiled and told me a story of how he and his best friend from church had been standing outside after a service one Sunday when a little boy was hit by a car right in front of them. They had performed CPR on him, but were unable to find a pulse, but kept working on the child, hoping emergency assistance would come. Then a woman stepped up, knelt and began to breathe into the mouth of the lifeless boy. Miraculously, he coughed and began to breathe on his own. EMT’s finally arrived and loaded him into the ambulance. When police questioned witnesses afterward, the woman who had mysteriously appeared and saved the boy was gone. Convinced the miracle they witnessed was angelic, the parole officer’s friend created the artwork of the eagle with an inscription from Isaiah, 40:31 beneath. He had no knowledge of my son’s death and when I shared my story he apologized profusely saying he never would have told me about the boy had he known my son died. But I was thankful for the message and knew there was something greater at work in sharing our stories. Once again I was reminded of the wings of eagles and believe this was an affirmation I was on my intended path. I learned a lot during those months and eventually accepted another job working with at-risk middle school kids. Not knowing why I had taken the position, I hesitantly entered the front doors of the school on my first day which led directly to a glass case containing a mounted eagle proudly looking over the vast entryway. The school mascot seemed to greet me with the assurance I was on an intended path, renewing my faith and giving me strength. I kept breathing, learning and living. It has been years since I had my son’s strong arms around me but there have been many messages and affirmations that have kept me moving forward a moment at a time. Now, when my days are dark, I recognize that the journey through difficult times illuminates joyful moments more brilliantly. Accepting my son’s death, I feel as I did when I was pregnant, aware of his constant presence, wondering about him, listening for him, and pausing often to feel him, knowing it wouldn’t be long until I held him in my arms. Until then, I will continue to eat right, get enough sleep, and prepare as an expectant mother, but also remembering to enjoy the gift of time with my husband and daughter, and the wonderful young man she loves who is the same age my son would be. I cherish each day knowing life is short and full of sorrow and joy, while having faith we will be blessed and counting on the fact that love will remain a constant of my life. Love is the universal energy that resonates and continues forever. We are all connected to that powerful energy as we are lifted on wings of eagles at the end.
Posted on: Sun, 01 Sep 2013 15:45:28 +0000
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