They say it often, and it is true, there is no miracle like that of a new birth. You have joined with us in praying for such a miracle ever since Mama learned she was dying. Thank you for your prayers uttered on our behalf.
The doctors weren’t sure Mama would make it. It’s a fast-growing cancer, they warned us. First order of business was shrinking the tumors in the brain. Then, maybe, addressing the tumor in the lungs. We didn’t know then about the blood clots in the legs. Or the cancer spots on her liver.
She wept when they told her she was dying. Cried like I have never witnessed my mother cry before, not even when Daddy died.
Please, God, she prayed. Let me see Mannie’s baby born.
You could almost see the wince in the doctor’s eyes, hope narrowed by too much loss. But he agreed with Mama when she said medicine didn’t number her days — God did. Doctors do the best they can and then they pray for miracles, too.
He did not arrive early or quickly, but all 8 pounds and 20 inches and head of dark hair of Boy Barnes is now bundled in the eager arms of Mannie and Nicole.
He is beautiful, Sister Tater proudly announced after assisting in the delivery of her very first grandchild, the way Native mothers have done for generations upon generations, whispering words of encouragement and strength into the ears of laboring women.
Keeping the Swarm is the name of the book George Venn, my former writing professor, has just released. In it, George pays tribute to his own grandmother and grandfather, George and Hazel Mayo, who raised him up during those early hard years following his father’s untimely death.
They lived at Alder in the shadow of a great white mountain. George writes: “That farmhouse – my attic room just beneath the cedar shakes – was the first place I lived; their home became a respite, a shelter from my father’s death. I lived there every summer for twenty-five years. I carry Alder within me now – a place where I could feel secure, where the anguish of tragedy could be countered.”
It was his grandfather Mayo who taught the young George the secrets of bee-keeping. Uncle Buck is a fisherman, not a bee-keeper. He sent me a text moments after Boy Barnes was born: “He wants to go fishing,” the new grandfather declared.
Mama had a difficult day, coughing up blood, and a pain in her back so intense that hourly doses of powerful narcotics did not dissuade it. Still she got dressed, sat in her chair, poured over Scriptures and prayed for Boy Barnes.
George Venn wrote a poem for his own son about the lessons of bee-keeping learned from his Grandfather Mayo.
Inviting Alex to the Bees
You want to come along?
I’m going down to hive the swarm
on the fence this afternoon
Yes, you might get stung
but I’ll show you old
Grandpa’s way among the bees.
It seems to me that the miracle of birth isn’t just about the creating of something new, but about holding fast to that which is too quickly passing — the secret ways of our mothers and our fathers and their mothers and fathers. These, after all, are our people. The swarm to which we will always belong.
There is almost always pain involved in keeping the swarm, but what else is a person to do? There is no honey without the hive, and no love thrives in a heart unwilling to be broken.
Welcome to the hive Boy Barnes. May you always find safe shelter in the arms of those who cherish you. May the golden-nectar of home be a healing balm whenever you encounter an unforgiving world. And may you never forget that you were the miracle we all prayed into being.
Don’t Miss This:
LA GRANDE, Ore. – A book launch reception to celebrate the publication of “Keeping the Swarm: New and Selected Essays” by George Venn is on Sunday, Nov. 18.The public is invited to the drop-in event from 2-4 p.m. in the Colleen Johnson Room at Cook Memorial Library.