I have never met the Rev. Elizabeth Kaeton, whose blog "Telling Secrets" is listed to the right, and whose recent story "Which Way Africa?" was the basis for my last posting. As she is in New Jersey and I am in Georgia, the odds are we may not ever actually meet face-to-face. But, as is so often the case, life (and death) can form the basis of shared experiences.
Elizabeth was in Canterbury, England, for the 2008 Lambeth Conference of Anglican bishops from around the world. She has posted several excellent stories, many of which at least made me feel like I was actually there beside her, seeing what she saw. A rare gift of poetry, indeed!
Late Tuesday night, while she was in England, her mother died back here in the States. She had some time previously mentioned her mother's illness, but she said in "Goodnight, Mother" that her actual death was a surprise.
If you are one of the two or three charter readers of my blog, you may see the parallels with the death of my father almost six months ago ("Ralph S. Davison (Feb. 8, 1921-Feb 5, 2008)"). The ages weren't that different; the suddenness of death; and the distance from our loved ones, although I wasn't nearly as far away.
I try never to claim that I truly know how someone feels or will feel, but I think I may have some idea in this case. My initial reaction was shock, because, although my father had been ill for two years, there was no obvious decline before he died. Mixed with that was the sadness that someone who had been a part of my life for all of my life was gone and I could never again tell him how things were in my life. Relief came for two reasons, because I knew he had been terribly unhappy in his body's weakness and that had now been healed and because I had made the time the previous summer to go to Illinois to see him. I really didn't have any regrets that I hadn't done this or that sooner and I knew that he loved me and he knew that I loved him.
Six months on, the shock has lessened and I am reminded of the lesson I learned when my mother died 23 years ago. You don't actually "get over it" in the sense that it quits hurting. You become more accustomed to the point of sadness now in your life and you learn to live with it as time goes by; it becomes a part of you. The sharpness of the pain lessens, but now and again, a memory, a word, a random thought, brings it back with surprising suddenness and tears come again. (In fact, they're not far off as I write this.) And that is as it should be. I would not want to forget Dad and his life and his love, because how could I do that without forgetting a part of myself? If the tears are the price we pay for love, they're a bargain!
As I said then:
I feel relief that his suffering and sickness are over and I am reminded that healing can mean release and not always curing. He now can be reunited with those who went before him, his parents, his sisters, my mother, and many more... and he now waits patiently for my stepmother and eventually my sister and me.
Elizabeth, a fellow pilgrim on the road, I pray that with God's you find strength and comfort as you walk down this part of the road, about six months behind me.
O God, who brought us to birth, and in whose arms we die, in our grief and shock contain and comfort us; embrace us with your love, give us hope in our confusion and grace to let go into new life; through Jesus Christ. Amen.
And for all of us
Support us, O Lord, all the day long of this troublous life, until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes, the busy world is hushed, the fever of life is over and our work is done. Then, Lord, in your mercy grant us a safe lodging, a holy rest, and peace at the last; through Christ our Lord. Amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment