Tag Archives: death

Music to Accompany a Dying Soul

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I know it sounds odd.  But.  If you were dying–and you knew it…and it wasn’t immediate–what music would you want in your ears when you left this earth?

It’s odd because I have a long list of funeral songs.  But this is a different question. 

I remember hearing about my friend’s brother, who listened almost exclusively to Michael Card’s music.  He wanted it cranked up loud.  His final breath was accompanied by soaring music that enveloped the room.

I think I would like to hear my loved ones singing to me.  When my dad died my siblings and I crowded around his hospital bed and sang until we couldn’t remember any more hymns to sing. The first night we didn’t have hymnbooks and mixed and matched verses.  There were false starts, dangling middles and strong familiar refrains.  Laughter mingled with tears.  The second night we had hymnbooks and it’s a funny thing: the time had a heavier quality to it.  I liked it better singing what we had stored in our heads, mistakes and all.

Within my extended family, loved ones are keeping vigil with a grandmother everyone calls Honey.  My brother walked past her room and heard his daughters singing to their grandma:

I’ll love Thee in life, I will love Thee in death,
And praise Thee as long as thou lendest me breath;
And say when the death dew lies cold on my brow,
If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, ’tis now.

With its ability to reach down into the tiny tendrils of your consciousness, music is powerful. 

I’m listening to an acoustic blues CD by Kelly Joe Phelps, Lead Me On.  The tracks are one-take songs. He sings a Blind Willie Johnson song, Jesus Make Up My Dying Bed.  I have yet to figure out what the song means, but it’s got a great title.  Another track is a Blind Willie McTell song We Got to Meet Death One Day. 

You gotta meet your death one day,
You’re going to glory after a while,
You’re gonna see death and smile,
You all gotta meet your death one day.

So…when it’s your ready-or-not moment, what would you want to hear?

 

Nothing But A Comma

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(A professor, denouncing this punctuation:
Death be not proud; Death thou shalt die!)

Nothing but a breath, a comma, separates life from life everlasting.
Very simple, really.
With the original punctuation restored, death is no longer
something to act out on a stage with exclamation marks.
It is a comma, a pause.
And death shall be no more, death thou shalt die.

Emma Thompson, the reason why Sense and Sensibility is my favorite movie, Emma Thompson of Much Ado, Henry V       and…  and…  

Emma Thompson played her most convincing role yet as Vivian Bearing, a scholar of 17th century poetry, an expert on John Donne.  Wit is the story of Professor Bearing’s journey through advanced ovarian cancer. 

This movie is heavy.  Heartbreakingly heavy.  It’s the kind of movie that saturates you.  Words, cancer and Emma.  Most of the movie is shot as a monologue with Emma talking directly to the camera.  Thompson is a marvel at giving each syllable its due. 

One thing that can be said for an eight month course
of cancer treatment: it is highly educational.
I am learning to suffer.

Audra McDonald plays the part of Suzie, Vivian’s primary nurse.  Fabulous.  She looked so familiar and it finally came to me.  Audra is also an opera singer.  My husband and I both fell in love with Audra McDonald one quiet Christmas afternoon, watching her sing.  You will love the way Suzie cares – in all its meanings — for Vivian.  How profound is a dollop of lotion and a hand massage.

I am a scholar.
Or I was…when I had shoes…or eyebrows.

When Vivian’s aged mentor visits her in the hospital and reads her Runaway Bunny, I was sobbing.  It demonstrates that sometimes simple words are the best.  It reminded me of a bedside scene in Bleak House where a young woman simply says the Lord’s Prayer. 

Words.  You will never forget the meaning of soporific.  My old friend concatenation had its half-second of fame.  Even the name of the protagonist is interesting:  Vivian – which evokes all those Latinate vivo- words – means lively.  Bearing gives the sense of what she is doing with all the cancer treatment: bearing it. 

Why is such a sorrowful movie called Wit?  John Donne is called a metaphysical wit, the word wit used in the sense of keen discernment or exceptional intelligence. 

The words of Donne did me in.  Just like watching Julie & Julia makes you want to cook up a wonderful meal, watching Wit makes me yearn to learn Donne, to have his potent poetry memorized.  I’m particularly interested in his Devotions upon Emergent Occasions.   The first thing I did after the credits had rolled and I had picked the puddle of myself up from my chair was go to Amazon and put the DVD (only 5.99!) in my shopping cart.  Clicking on the picture below takes you there.

…and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest…

Motherless Daughters

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By 1996 I was certain sure I had made peace with grief.  Sorrow was a sealed file with the words RESOLVED stamped on the front.  I had been “moving on”, as they say, for decades.

Suddenly, with the stealth of a B-2 bomber, grief pounced and hijacked me.  While I was held hostage, facing my familiar adversary, I had the sense of confusion and disbelief: This cannot be happening to me.  It seemed surreal, disconnected, in short, unbelievable.

It was in that context of confused ongoing mourning that I first read Motherless Daughters.

My mother-in-law wanted to help; she gave me this book with the hesitant hope that it might give me something she herself couldn’t give.  I planted myself in the small bathroom at 10:00 p.m. on a Saturday night and started reading.  By 4:00 a.m. I had finished the book, exhausted, soggy,  numb, and emotionally done-in.

When Hope Edelman wrote about experiences, emotions and situations that I knew firsthand in my soul but had never spoken aloud, it could only be described as cathartic.  Edelman gave me words to articulate the sorrow and, more than anything, helped me to understand the nature of grief.  The first chapter, The Seasons of Grieving, is the best concise summary of grief that I have ever read.

I recently revisited Hope’s narrative.  I was surprised to see statements I’ve been saying so long that I thought they were my very own.  The words of the first chapter are still powerful and continue to resonate in my soul.  Back in 1996, they reassured me that I wasn’t some freak of nature who refused to “get over it.”

Having said that, I found the predominant value of this book much more in its diagnosis than in its therapy.

Quotes to copy:

Like most other families that lose a mother, mine coped as best it could, which meant, essentially, that we avoided all discussion of the loss and pretended to pick up exactly where we’d left off.

“My mother died when I was nineteen,” [Anna] Quindlen wrote. “For a long time, it was all you needed to know about me, a kind of vest-pocket description of my emotional complexion:  ‘Meet you in the lobby in ten minutes–I have long brown hair, am on the short side, have on a red coat, and my mother died when I was nineteen.'”

Ten years ago I was convinced I’d finished mourning my mother.  The truth was, I’d barely begun.

Edelman describes a random incident years after her mother’s death where she is balled up in physical pain, clutching her stomach.  She had thought she had sailed through the five stages of death and moved on.  I had a similar moment when, as if lightening from heaven, I was struck, pierced, skewered, with overwhelming grief.  I thought I was well-adjusted, “normal” and that everything was copacetic.  For no discernable reason (I mean the timing of the episode) I was brought to my knees, in tears, and incapable of articulating anything but deep, deep pain.  I ended up in a seldom-used restroom in our church, gasping for air, howling in anguish.  Someone got my husband and told him to go in and check on me.

Here’s what I’ve learned about grief since then: It’s not linear.  It’s not predictable.  It’s anything but smooth and self-contained.  Someone did us all a grave injustice by first implying that mourning has a distinct beginning, middle, and end.  That’s the stuff of short fiction.  It’s not real life.

Grief goes in cycles, like the seasons, like the moon.  No one is better created to understand this than a woman, whose bodily existence is marked by a monthly rhythm for more than half her life.

Lighthearted on a Heavy Day

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Nellie Harper, March 23, 1920 – May 7, 1968

Emotions are unpredictable, inexplicable, impenetrable, and, ultimately, irrepressible.

Life is chockablock with paradox.  In the midst of grief, laughter.  In the midst of celebration and joy, a pang of sorrow.

For decades May 7th has been a day of private grief.  Private, because it is an awkward and unwieldy burden.  There seemed no way to share the grief without the other person feeling clumsy.  

After years, however, the crying turns to sighing.  A sharp edges of grief are rubbed away.  [Many friends have lost their moms to something other than death.  Their grief is ongoing; the sharp edges continue to cut.]

Yesterday I cried as I read Cindy’s tribute to her mother-in-law who passed away on Tuesday. 

But today…today I woke up lighthearted.  Inexplicably lighthearted. 

Thankful for the gift of a godly mother.

Lighthearted on a heavy day.  This is a new mercy. 

 
More posts on grief,  May 7, 1968

Living in the Shadow of Death

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Yesterday, I held my neighbor, shaking and sobbing, two hours after her beloved Tom breathed his last breath.  His story is too familiar: cancer, treatment, remission, cancer return, gone.  They were prepared for him to go in the fall, but not now. 

This morning as my husband sat up in bed, I pulled him back.  Just a little while longer.  I dread the day that we say our final good-byes, this man whom I have loved for 34 years.   My neighbor’s loss seems a vicarious dress rehearsal, a needed reminder of what is ahead. 

How do I live in the shadow of death? 

Trusting.  My hope and confidence are in the Lord.  I don’t want to be fearful, skittish, anxious, neurotic.  No man knows his time.  All I know is that when deep waters come, the strength will be provided. 

Savoring.  Each day, each conversation, each moment is a gift. 

Expressing.  The older we get, the more we affirm our love for one another.  In the middle of random moments he will say, Love you, babe.   I Love You is a good way to send a child out the door, end a phone conversation, say good night.  Even better is the conversation starter: You know what I love about you?

Confessing  Both confessing our sins and confessing our faith.  Why wait?

Forgiving  Leave no room for pettiness.  Funny thing, we see it in others but are blind to it in ourselves.  Put the best possible construction on actions or attitudes you don’t understand. 

Enjoying   There is truth, beauty and goodness surrounding us.  This is my Father’s world.  

Obeying   For me, it always comes to trust and obey.  There is no other way.

Beauty Displayed in Death

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Looking outside, I see thousands of dying leaves;
 my hope is that when I grow old and start to wither away,
 my life will reflect some small portion
 of the beauty
displayed in the death all around us…

…and until then
to live with the hope of resurrection
in that eternal spring
when I go to be with God.

~  our son Carson
commenting on a photo on Facebook

Mistaken Identity

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“Whitney, you got to watch a video of your own funeral.” 


It hardly seems credible that a mixup like this could happen in 2006, but it did. 

A high speed collision took the lives of five people from Taylor University.  Five weeks after the crash, when the Van Ryn’s daughter came out of a coma, they eventually realized that she was not their daughter.  This is a compelling story, sad and happy, a picture of two families trusting God through the most agonizing drama imaginable.

That drama was told last night on a two hour Dateline NBC program.

A fine moment:  Lisa Van Ryn put the pieces together first.  After a physical therapy session, as she was wheeling the girl she now suspected was not her sister Laura back to her room, she got eye level and asked her what her name was.  The girl replied, “Whitney.”  She asked her to say her parents’ names.  After she did, Lisa was convinced this wasn’t Laura.  Her response was, “That’s very good, Whitney.  You are doing so well.  You are really doing great.”

Matt Lauer commented on Lisa’s generosity to Whitney at that moment.  He was surprised that Lisa didn’t start screaming and running down the hall.  Lisa looked at him with a smile, “But I loved her! Why would I do that to her?”  The love she demonstrated, putting Whitney’s needs before her own…amazing grace.

In the last few years, some stories have gripped our imagination because the participants’ faith has been so clearly displayed in the midst of their grief.  Do you remember the national spotlight on Frank James when the Mt. Hood climbers were missing?  In this program, what I found so winsome was a complete lack of bitterness and blaming.  The Cerak and Van Ryn families were gracious in every word spoken.  All of grace.

What is Left?

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I’ve been thinking about life, death, meaning and
memories. 

The writer Madeleine L’Engle and the great tenor Luciano Pavarotti
both died last Thursday.  They left
behind them a body of artistic work, a legacy which will impact the lives of
our great-grandchildren. 

When one dies, what is left? 

How does one take the measure of the dash between the dates on the
tombstone? 

The stuff holds
little significance to me.  The sum total
of my inheritance from my parents was a Bible, a few photos, a few books and
some mimeographed correspondence between my father and mother. What I inherited, what they both gave me, is an abiding faith
in God, a passion for words, a home saturated with good music, the tactile pleasure of
holding a baby, a nasty habit of procrastination, an irresistible impulse to
buy books, genuine pleasure in hospitality, an easy ability to gain weight, an avoidance of conflict, a tendency
to approach work in fits and starts and a hundred other traits which can be both
annoying and endearing.

When my mother died, her artistic work was her children and the people who came into her everyday life.  She wasn’t famous, but she did leave a significant monument of love in the hearts of those who knew her. 

The passing of a public person is a moment when death demands center stage and gets your attention; you can avoid it, evade it — but there it stands, waiting to be faced.

My husband and I did just
that while driving yesterday.  We
talked about the future day when the doctor says, “This is
it.  The big one.  Put your affairs in order.”  We wondered if we would be compelled to spend
$30K to prolong life three months.  We
talked about the lives of our sons, about the present state of our family.  We affirmed our appreciation for the years we’ve
had together; recounted the many ways we’ve seen the goodness and kindness of
God displayed in our lives.  We mentioned
the regrets, not for our circumstances but for the sin of which we have been
slow to repent.  

In short, we spoke our
farewells to one another, banking them into a memory deposit box.  If one of us were to be taken in an instant,
we would have this day to look back on, these words to hear in our memory. I hope we take many more opportunities to say the words, and I look on this day as a practice round.

Again, what remains?  When the body is gone, what footprints will linger? 

Our pastor tells his children, “When God saved me He was pursuing you, even before you were born.” 
That’s it. All I have, I have been given.  Just like a great-aunt’s great diamond ring, I want to pass on the gifts that I’ve
received to those who come along after me. 
  

Children are their parent’s heirs;
the mercies of God are not the least part
of the parents’ treasure,
nor the least of children’s inheritance,
being helps for their faith,
matter for their praise,
and spurs to their obedience.

Indeed, as children are their parents’ heirs,
so they become in justice liable to pay their parents’ debts.
The great debt of the saint at death
is that which he owes God for His mercies.

Therefore it is but reason that parent should
tie children to the payment thereof.

~ William Gurnall

May 7, 1968

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The lunch bell rang at 11:30.  My fifth-grade teacher dismissed the class. I put my sweater on, picked up my cello and navigated my way through the crowded hallway.  As I crossed from the dark interior to the bright sunshine my mind swept through the corners of the morning looking for a scrap of a story to tell my mom. Since Danny had moved up to Jr. High, I had my mom all to myself during lunch.

I moved slowly down the sidewalk, stopping every ten paces to change the clumsy cello to the other arm.  A tune went through my head and came out with a hum. Turning left at Elizabeth Street, I looked up and saw my dad a block ahead at the edge of the school property.  He stood still as a sentinel, shoulders slumped. 

“Dad!”

I hitched the cello closer to my body and broke into an exhuberant trot.   Never before had I seen my dad in the middle of the school day.  One by one he had taken my six older siblings out of their classes, had broken the news to them and had brought them home.  For this final breaking, he waited for me to come to him. Out of breath, I set the cello down and gave him a hug. 

“How’s Mom?  Did you bring her home from the hospital?”

His face was tired granite.

“Honey, I have some bad news.”

It wasn’t his solemnity that struck me; it was the absence of any movement.  I looked up with questioning eyes.

“Carol, Mommy is in heaven with Jesus.”

I stared at him, completely stunned.

“She died very early this morning.”

He picked up the cello and we began the two block trek towards home.  We had passed two houses on the left when I protested.

“Wait, Daddy.  You said it was bad news.  But if she’s in heaven with Jesus, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

For the first time the muscles in his face moved.  He smiled down at me wordlessly.  While I couldn’t comprehend that my Mom was dead, I could see the grief that had already moved into his eyes; I could sense him pulling into himself.   Flitting back to my own concerns, my mind reminded me of a problem.

“But I wanted to tell  Mom that I got an A on my spelling test.”

I didn’t ask for details.  There was something in his demeanor which spoke the truth.  My next impulse was to lighten his load. 

“Daddy, let me carry the cello.  Please, Daddy.  Please…let me carry the cello for you.”

He shook his head as we continued to walk.  We turned right onto Greenfield Avenue in silence.  Our heads bowed in surrender to the heavy weight as we trudged the rest of the way home.  The house was as quiet and still as my father had been. 

As we approached the porch, I bounded up the steps, remembering my news.

“Mom!  I got an A………………”  My voice broke off as the news dangled in midair. 

Pondering Privileges and Benefits

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We want to avoid suffering, death, sin, ashes.  But we live in a world crushed and broken and torn, a world God Himself visited to redeem.  We received his poured-out life, and being allowed the high privilege of suffering with Him, may then pour ourselves out for others. 
    ~ Elisabeth Elliott

I attended a funeral this week and was reminded once again of the benefits of death–to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.  To be sure, death remains our enemy until the final resurrection. Then death will gasp its last breath.  Amen!  But remember this also: there is no resurrection without death.  And there is the rub.  Everyone wants to go to heaven, but no one wants to die.  Jesus instructs his disciples: in order to regularly live you must regularly die.  He who gives up his life finds it.  But he who grasps his life loses it.  This is the deep weird.  But it’s a mystery we are always confronted with.  Are we willing to die so we might live?    
  ~ Magister Pater