What Would They Say?

A couple of days ago I received a text message; another person from seminary had died, leaving his wife and young adult children.  My friend who had texted didn’t know any details.  M seemed so young, probably in his fifties if I had to wager a guess.  I don’t know why we always look for details when we receive news like this except to say that if we have them, we can determine whether or not this could happen to us.  Only it will, of course.  It will.  

Someday, somewhere, someone will share news of our death with someone else.  Will it come as a shocking surprise or will it come at the end of a long illness or will it come at the end of a long life, at a time and season that seems easier to digest such news? 

Bruce was only 73 when he died.  But the truth is, that’s not much younger than the average life expectancy for a man in the United States.  And I’ve said this before, but he was so healthy, until he wasn’t.  His illness, diagnosed just ten months ago yesterday, was brief and brutal.  I recently heard a death like his described as a “Niagara Falls” death.  You go along with life, traversing the rapids and enjoying the view, and then, you enter the falls.  So, it’s not a sudden one moment you’re there and the next you’re not and it’s not a long and painful illness.  It’s Niagara Falls.   

When I sit with people who are in their nineties, one of the things I hear most often is how many people who have been a part of their lives have died.  The list of those they miss in this life is long.  And that is something that can be hard to walk with day in and day out.  The loss of the people, yes, but also the loss of who they were in relationship.  The fishing buddy.  The travel partner.  The hairdresser.  The neighbor.  The seminary classmate.  

We all have our lists….the saints in our lives who have shaped us and loved us and no longer walk this earth.  I am practicing holding them before me as though they are still with me, because in many ways they are.  The wisdom they imparted.  The laughter.  The lessons.  And at the same time, I am aware of the void their physical absence leaves.  

I was reading a poem recently by Donna Ashworth called On Those Days.  She writes of loving ourselves the way our saints loved us.  I’ll include it below.  I am working my way up to this kind of self-love.  In my vocation, it’s not uncommon for people to project their frustrations and anger and feelings of helplessness and hopelessness onto their pastor/s and why not?  Don’t we have some sort of direct line to the Almighty, some special connection that we can ring up and say Good morning, could you possibly make this shit show better today?   And if life is hard, haven’t centuries of really bad theology told us that somehow God could make it better if only God chose to do so?  So, why not take it out on the person in the collar who stands every week and dares to represent God?  Why not take out our frustrations on them?  (Of course, no one thinks this through logically; it just happens).  

Usually, I can see what’s happening and pray and love people through it all.  And I’m trying right now.  Jesus shows us the way,  reminding me to daily pray for those who persecute us.  This isn’t the way our world is operating right now, though.  We just default to revenge and retribution.  

Oh, when life is complicated and messy, how I wish I could gather my communion of saints around me and ask them what I should do.  I can hear their opinions.  I can fairly imagine their responses.  Amy would be incensed on my behalf and then she would suggest that we go do dinner at the fancy seafood restaurant we loved, where we could sit by the fireplace and let the staff care for us in impeccable ways..  Lynette would say Oh honey.  This isn’t about you at all is it? And here, I’ve baked you something wondrous that I can’t eat, but I’ll sit here with you while you enjoy it.  And my Nanny would send me down to the pantry underneath her basement stairs for a can of pumpkin and a can of evaporated milk while she rolled out the pie crust and we’d bake a pumpkin pie and that would make it so much better.  And Rob would laugh and remind me that people are assholes sometimes, all of us.   And Mary, the Queen of the Butterflies would make me a beautiful card and put it in the post, even though she saw me in person most days and she’d say things like “I’m sending bountiful blessings your way.”  Selma would bake cardamon bread and leave it on my desk with no note, but I’d know it was from her.  Jenny would call me up and talk about nothing and everything for as long as it took for me to come back to myself.  My Papa would tell me that I was the best thing in the world and I would believe him because he always told the truth.  Peggy would say that everything’s going to be alright.  And I would believe her, too. 

And what of my Beloved?  Because he also made wonderful food for us to share, and tucked notes into my bag daily.  Whenever he traveled for work, he’d leave notes around the house for me to find, and there would always be one on my pillow.  But in times of

uncertainty, he offered me perhaps the best response.  He would simply listen.  Deeply.  For as long as it took.  Without offering any sort of advice or response at all.  And, y’all, sometimes this drove me mad!  I’m a person who needs words and he was a person who listened with his whole self.  Words weren’t necessary.  And then, ever so gently, he would invite me to imagine what I would say to a person I loved who shared such a story with me.  And he would remind me, that deep within I know what to do or say or not do or say.  I know how to love myself so I can love others.  (Also, Jesus calls this one of the two greatest commandments, love our neighbor as we love ourselves.)

I am rambly this morning because I am missing the wisdom that is contained in the people I have lost.  And I am feeling small and vulnerable in this grief.  

If I were to offer any words to the wife of M, in these terrible early days, it would be that she love herself well.  The rest will come.  

On Those Days

On those days

when you miss someone the most

as though your memories

are sharp enough

to slice through skin and bone

remember how they loved you.

Remember how they loved you

and do that

for yourself.

In their name,

In their honor,

Love yourself

as they loved you.

They would like that.

On those days

when you miss someone the most

love yourself harder.