Crossing the Bar

Crossing the Bar

Charlotte Hotte

ISBN 978-1-63525-315-3 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63525-316-0 (Digital)

Copyright © 2016 by Charlotte Hotte

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

About the Author

Acknowledgements

This particular story line can be credited to my sister, Denise, who was the inspiration of Crossing The Bar. I send out thanks to all my family for each part they played in this book’s production, including the twenty minutes of struggle from my daughter Kayla convincing me that I was wrong and I needed to fix the book. Thanks to my daughter Bethany for the cover photo that holds my thoughts together. Thanks Mr. Marlowe Saulter and Mrs. Sheila Sykes for helping lost children find their way home. Most of all, I want to say Thank You Jesus for your saving power and the promise that though I will walk through the valley of shadow of death Thou art with me.

Chapter 1

I live beside a graveyard. At night when it’s time for bed, I lie beneath the covers, place my head on a soft silk pillow case, and close my eyes in sleep. I lay as still and silent as the so many residents of the local country cemetery. The only difference is that our bodies are not parallel. I am not sure whether or not this is true because of the design of the room or because that’s subconsciously a line I have drawn to separate myself from them. Their bodies face toward the east, and mine toward the south. Now that I admit that I know this, I am wondering how long it will take me to inch my bed in a different direction. I know that in an unknown future, I will be joining them. Once I position myself to lie as they lie, how much more of my identity do I surrender? There is so much that I don’t know and so much that they do know, even to the smallest corpse. It’s hard to comprehend that the stillborn who was placed lifeless in his mother’s arms knows more about life than me, even though I have watched decades come and go. They have learned not just life but the mystery of death. Was there total blackness broken by the white light? Were demons devouring the soul in an endless torture? Was there a peace that passes all understanding? A great reunion? An I-told-you-so? An I-need-more-time? Was there a lump in their throats and an utterance of oops from their lips? Oh, these companions of mine have so much to tell! Their story is final, etched in an eternal stone, complete. I have so few clues as to who they were, and no clue to who they are now. They accept me as I walk among them, and in exchange, I respect their physical holding zone. There is a kinship among us. Not something you see, not something you can explain, only something you know. They once were like me, and I will, one day, at any given time, be like them.

Before I can continue to build on our kinship and relate better to my dearest companions, I must first be sure I know myself. I am selfish. I find peace among the tombs. Here I satisfy a need, a curiosity, a desire, and yet I’m not required to offer anything in return. A consequence, I ask myself, or just a feed off of who I am? I think the latter.

I am a good listener. This is a measure that is difficult to perceive because who can listen to those that cannot speak? Yet I hear them with my heart. My heart is good. I hear their victories. I hear their laughter. I hear their pain. I hear all the things they wished they had done and all the so many things that they wished they had not wasted their precious time with. What I struggle with the most is hearing their loneness. Have they been forgotten? Can there be a greater sadness than ones family walking away, heart heavy with grief, and you can’t stop them. You can’t console them. Is there any comfort for that family in believing that the last tear beyond the grave doesn’t ache as badly as the one before the grave? Will that final tear lay under one’s eye forever or will it fall down their cheek eventually?

I am fake. I make great first impressions, but that is not me. This is me. I don’t want to pretend. So here I find myself in a state of contentment among those that have passed over. My auburn hair, newly cut, blows in the breeze. My hazel eyes scan the forgotten stones. This is where I am the most tranquil. I love to wear dresses, and I wonder what I will be wearing when I travel this path that is before me.

I lack commitment. None is required here. We live in two different time zones. When I am here, time has no reason. There is an elderly gentleman who visits the grave of his youthful mother. She must wonder why this old man calls her Mama, and where is her little boy? Though day fades away and night lingers awhile, there is no tomorrow. It’s always today. So here I am, never late, and I share myself every day, and this never interferes with my need to be scarce.

I am beautiful, so I have been told time and time again. But I don’t believe it. I have a hard time really looking at myself. It’s not so much what I see, but what I am afraid I will see. I fight the aging process, but if I don’t grow old, then I am here. But I am here anyway. When I walk, I walk gracefully. My movements flow, and I have turned a many of heads. Here no one cares what I look like or how much of my youth I may have lost. One day, I will cease to be, and only this empty vessel that has housed my soul will be left. The story will have been written. The bruise left fresh upon my skin, the scar on my left knee, the lines that mark the milestones I have reached or tried to reach will be the final period or examination mark of my being. Will they be noticed? Will anyone remember how they appeared? Will someone think I am too young? Will they say I lived a long life? Will anyone remember the dance? Will anyone remember me? I am conceited.

I am a daddy’s girl. Without my growing relationship among those that have passed, I am alone. I think I may have always been searching for my first love, my dad. No one has had the twinkle of love in their eyes for me like my daddy had. I miss that look. I haven’t seen it since my dad closed his baby blues. Daddy is not here, but somebody’s daddy is. I walk among the graves and just know. There are those of whom I feel warmth mingled with sadness. Then there are those in which I feel nothing. Maybe it’s all my imagination. Maybe I am crazy. But sitting at the foot of a grave, it embraces me and makes me feel like I belong.

The sun keeps blinding me through the branches of the so many different hardwoods that are erected throughout the several acres of the cemetery. Each time the branches move, my eyes are irritated by the brightness of sun. The weather is hot, but there is a nice breeze. I would even call it cool, yet I wonder if the cool breeze is from the environment or the company I am keeping.

There is a new occupant among us. The flowers around his grave are beautiful, but they shall remain that way for only a short while. His name is Malcolm Taylor. I didn’t see his