My very first funeral—not my own, thankfully—was for a grandfather I hadn’t met until I was in third grade. At the service, I was eighteen, with all kinds of fancy future plans, and in the roped-off family section the air was heavy with humidity and sweat. A droning voice delivered a eulogy that nearly lulled me to sleep. Then, with the service blessedly over, we stood up and filed past the coffin.
I fainted.
I didn’t know the top portion of Grandpa’s ornate casket was open, his pale face looking up at me. I’d never seen a dead body before, and I passed out. Fast forward a few decades and I’m still not comfortable with death.
They say most Americans are terrified of end-of-life, so I’m in good company. My faith teaches eternal life, and it’s no wonder people cling to the idea of heaven. We’re all scared out of our wits to think of not being.
Or at least I am. And I don’t know what to do with the recent news that both a long-time neighbor and my favorite aunt died this month. There’s sadness yes. Memories come scudding by at odd times, and I relive them as if I’m watching an old super eight reel from someone’s vacation. I say a prayer and light a candle and wish them each back into my life.
Snapshots pop up: Here’s my neighbor offering to take my daughter on a trip to the coast; there’s my dear aunt, encouraging my messy artwork messes in her kitchen, looking the other way when I sneak my boyfriend in through the servant’s quarters door. My four played for hours with the neighbor’s kids in the back of our old VW bus, my aunt’s four girls squealed in delight at the wooden shoes I painted for each of them. Precious images fly until I remember—death has claimed them the way it comes for all of us.
Or has it?
People like to debate about whether or not a person “got right with God” before their last breath. Belief systems try to rule over a subject nobody’s sure about. You’re either in or out according to many religious views, and woe to the one who doesn’t confess correctly before it’s too late.
I’m pretty sure we’ve had it wrong for a very long time.
The only way I avoid hyperventilating over this whole subject is to live right now. Over and over, I have to yank myself into the Presence of love. I don’t always do it perfectly, but when I do, my life expands. I can see all of creation, assuring me that everything is connected by love. From the dirtiest knees to the most exquisite gems, from smelliest roadkill to finest caviar, it’s all linked to love from a creator who is love.
When my adoptive father lay dying, my sister and I held a bedside vigil. I prayed silently, first begging for a miracle cure, then wondering if suffocating a dying person with a pillow was humane. With the lights turned off, Sis and I each held his hand and sang his favorite hymns. As we harmonized, Dad’s breathing slowed.
I ran from the room to fetch my mother. While I was gone, my sister claims she saw Jesus, up in the corner by the TV. I’m still jealous. Even so, the day was holy and even without seeing my own apparition, a sacred love filled my senses.
I’ll always miss my neighbor and my aunt and no doubt cry hot tears of grief. But I’ll also try to stay focused on this now, this day God made—one more opportunity to be love to another person crawling through hard times.
I’ll worry about dying now and then, too—nobody has ever proven what happens to us after death. Still, as I lay living, I’m convinced there’s wonderful mystery at the intersection of life and death. A loving God wouldn’t simply dig a six-foot hole and walk away. Whether there are real pearly gates or a return to the cosmos, I can’t be sure. But the God I know loves us so completely that the fires of love will be impossible to put out.
After the lights came back on and the nurses filed in, I took Dad’s hand and slipped off the handcrafted wedding band I’d made for him, held it to my lips. I marveled at how warm the silver stayed for the longest time, as if to whisper that all we have is this moment, this love. Rest in peace dear Bobbi, dear Auntie. You are loved.
