Cleaning Julia's bench

I am at Mount Hermon for the PBCC women's retreat this weekend.  I carpooled with my friend Karie, who was helping with check in, and was able to come a little early yesterday to get a head start on the retreat.  Many many months ago, the last time we visited Julia's bench, we noticed it started getting a bit dirty and dingy from being in the elements.  So I brought with me to the retreat some cleaner and a scrub brush with the intention of cleaning the bench.  Since most people would not be arriving for another hour or two, I decided to spend some time alone at Julia's bench and work on cleaning it.  All I had was the bottle of cleaner and a scrub brush.  I had no towels or water.  So I went to the women's restroom and got a bunch a paper towel in there and then filled up my water bottle.  It would have to do.

The act of cleaning Julia's bench was very therapeutic for me.  As I cleaned I failed to find some fitting metaphor to fit my act of love.   I wanted to feel like every speck of grime I scrubbed off would clean my saddened heart.  It didn't.  But the physical labor indeed was satisfying in itself.  The beautification of it.  It was being well taken care of just like the care I would have given to her.  It was being honored.  I just want Julia's bench to be beautiful as she was beautiful.  I want the bench to be clean and inviting and noticed.  I want her to be remembered even by people who never knew her or her story.  And I wanted to deter people from defacing our precious memorial by etching their initials into it.  There are already a couple.

As I was scrubbing away, a man was walking by with his bicycle on his way home.  I am not sure who started the conversation.  But for some reason I decided it was safe to tell him that this was my daughter's bench.  His face became reflective.  He told me that he had sat on the bench many times and had noticed the plaque.  Then we went on to talk about the drought and the weather for a bit.  He worked at Mount Hermon as a volunteer, doing what I do not know. But before he left, he told me he would never this.  It meant a lot to me.  I didn't even tell him about Julia and how or why she died.  But I could tell he was very touched.

A little while later, another man walked by and made some comment about cleaning the bench.  It is funny because I said nothing to him about it being my daughter's bench.  I just get gut feelings about people to whether I can let them in and share about Julia.  I could tell he wasn't at a place to receive her precious story.

After cleaning, I just sat on the bench and soaked in the air, the forest, the creek.  I am so thankful for a place to come and think about Julia.  It is perfect.  So much better than a cemetery.  And now, the bench is looking good as new so others can come and rest on it and maybe even read the plaque and read her name.  And in that, she is remembered.  Others will know she was a girl who was deeply loved.