Teach Us How to Die

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Abstract

osemary”s at the facility at any given time, but also because it seems children break down walls that we adults can’t always see.Last week when I visited, as I was packing up, I asked the group to tell me something they missed about “the good ole days.” I can’t resist sharing some of their responses:“I miss the days when children would behave in church or in restaurants,” one cute old man wearing a black tracksuit tells me.”Now parents just let their kids run around.”“I remember when people would dress up to travel…we’d wear our nicest clothes to take a train or a plane ride,” Marge, the lady next to him, says.The cute old man adds, “I told a lady the other day when I was out to lunch that she should keep a closer eye on her child. That kid was running all over the dining room, making a racket.”“How’d she take that advice?” I asked.“I got a dirty look. But a few minutes later the manager came up to my table and whispered a ‘thank you’ for speaking up because he didn’t feel he was in a position to say anything.”Other times, the mood isn’t so lighthearted. It’s challenging to come in to the community room and notice people missing, only to learn they’d passed between my visits. “They don’t even tell us when it happens!” residents often complain.Another part of this outreach is taking communion to the sick and dying in their homes. On Sunday I met Bob, a man who just recently came back to the church after 60 years of being away. Bob has 6 weeks to live and his wife and hospice are caring for him at home. As he situated his blanket and pillow, his wife put Grace, their 120 lb Golden Retriever, on the back patio. I

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pulled up a chair and sat. “That dog bullies me into giving her whatever she wants…and I love it.” Bob’s eyes gleam. Grace stands at the glass door, tongue hanging out, staring at Bob’s every move. A thought flits through my mind of how hard his passing will be on this sweet pup.Bob has beautiful green-blue eyes and several times while we visit, he wipes tears from them. He apologizes, telling me he no longer has the ability to contain his emotions. I reassure him that his tears are appropriate and don’t make me the least bit uncomfortable. Bob was in Vietnam and smoked for 48 years. He tells me how grateful he is for the life he’s lived, how God has been so good to him, how he doesn’t deserve that kind of goodness after the things he’s done. “I’m so grateful.” Now I’m holding back tears, and we sit silently.I take his hand, dry and papery, and hold it. He places his other hand atop mine. We pray.Bob is teaching me how to die well. He is slowly slipping into a quiet place in his spirit where gratitude and love are pulsing with the beat of his heart. And when that heartbeat is finally able to rest, Bob will be leaping into the arms of his Savior, who is Love and Mercy.May we all reach a place at the end where we have nothing but gratitude for the lives we lived. May we have no regrets and be surrounded by those we love and who love us. May we not fear what we can’t see, but trust in the One who reminds us that He could never forget us. “Behold, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands…” (Isa 49:16, NASB). May we embrace this transition because we know Who is eager to embrace us on the shores of the void.[In memory of Rita, Rob, Anna, Rose, Chickie, and Ethelene.]</article></body>

Teach Us How to Die

Death has been on my mind a lot lately. This week I heard about the deaths of two people, one from my graduating class in high school, the other the mom of a longtime friend.

At the risk of coming across as maudlin, I can’t say that death is ever very far from my mind. As I get closer to turning 50, I’m feeling my mortality in new and ever-present ways. But death in itself does not terrify me. There’s no way to avoid death so we can either fear it and do all we can to fight it…or live loudly and stay ever-ready. I feel uneasy about facing the mystery of it, maybe a little worried it’ll be painful, but how we face the idea of our own death can help us live with more purpose and freedom.

I visit one of the local nursing homes monthly to take the homebound communion. I love doing this for a few different reasons, one of the most important being I believe in the dignity of all stages of life, and caring for the elderly and those near-death is easily overlooked because it is difficult to confront. We’ve all heard about the loneliness epidemic and our elderly are a large portion of this constituency.

Another reason I like going is because of how grateful they are to have visitors. When I bring my youngest daughter Rosemary, she is the belle of the ball, not only because there are at least a half dozen “Rosemary”s at the facility at any given time, but also because it seems children break down walls that we adults can’t always see.

Last week when I visited, as I was packing up, I asked the group to tell me something they missed about “the good ole days.” I can’t resist sharing some of their responses:

“I miss the days when children would behave in church or in restaurants,” one cute old man wearing a black tracksuit tells me.”Now parents just let their kids run around.”

“I remember when people would dress up to travel…we’d wear our nicest clothes to take a train or a plane ride,” Marge, the lady next to him, says.

The cute old man adds, “I told a lady the other day when I was out to lunch that she should keep a closer eye on her child. That kid was running all over the dining room, making a racket.”

“How’d she take that advice?” I asked.

“I got a dirty look. But a few minutes later the manager came up to my table and whispered a ‘thank you’ for speaking up because he didn’t feel he was in a position to say anything.”

Other times, the mood isn’t so lighthearted. It’s challenging to come in to the community room and notice people missing, only to learn they’d passed between my visits. “They don’t even tell us when it happens!” residents often complain.

Another part of this outreach is taking communion to the sick and dying in their homes. On Sunday I met Bob, a man who just recently came back to the church after 60 years of being away. Bob has 6 weeks to live and his wife and hospice are caring for him at home. As he situated his blanket and pillow, his wife put Grace, their 120 lb Golden Retriever, on the back patio. I pulled up a chair and sat. “That dog bullies me into giving her whatever she wants…and I love it.” Bob’s eyes gleam. Grace stands at the glass door, tongue hanging out, staring at Bob’s every move. A thought flits through my mind of how hard his passing will be on this sweet pup.

Bob has beautiful green-blue eyes and several times while we visit, he wipes tears from them. He apologizes, telling me he no longer has the ability to contain his emotions. I reassure him that his tears are appropriate and don’t make me the least bit uncomfortable. Bob was in Vietnam and smoked for 48 years. He tells me how grateful he is for the life he’s lived, how God has been so good to him, how he doesn’t deserve that kind of goodness after the things he’s done. “I’m so grateful.” Now I’m holding back tears, and we sit silently.

I take his hand, dry and papery, and hold it. He places his other hand atop mine. We pray.

Bob is teaching me how to die well. He is slowly slipping into a quiet place in his spirit where gratitude and love are pulsing with the beat of his heart. And when that heartbeat is finally able to rest, Bob will be leaping into the arms of his Savior, who is Love and Mercy.

May we all reach a place at the end where we have nothing but gratitude for the lives we lived. May we have no regrets and be surrounded by those we love and who love us. May we not fear what we can’t see, but trust in the One who reminds us that He could never forget us. “Behold, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands…” (Isa 49:16, NASB). May we embrace this transition because we know Who is eager to embrace us on the shores of the void.

[In memory of Rita, Rob, Anna, Rose, Chickie, and Ethelene.]