"What's up? What are you thinking about?"
"Just life stuff..."
"What kind of life stuff?"
"Well, you know, I don't think I'm scared of dying. I'm scared of not existing. I guess that is my self preservation instinct."
"I sometimes have that fear too. It's part of why you memorize verses at school and why we sing the same songs over and over at church. When our hearts get afraid we can find words that speak to us. "
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Earlier this year, a friend of a friend suddenly passed away from a strep infection. She was a mother of five. The youngest 18 months. She honeschooled them all. Active in her faith, she studied theology in the side. I was struck hard by her death. It was a reminder that sometimes we go early, even if most would agree that our work on earth is far from done. It reminded me of long showers where I mentally prepared for the possibility of leaving young children behind during the early days of covid as I have an autoimmune disease that puts me in a higher risk category. It also broke my heart in so many ways. I was sure that if I had known this woman, we would have likely exchanged thoughtful conversations. I thought of her husband and children and how they would live on with such grief. I held vigil for her and my grief was heavy. I didn't even know her. But my heart ached.
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An artist / author I follow on podcasts and Instagram who goes by the handle @scottthepainter wrote a book with a coffin that says "we all get in." He discusses how confronting and getting comfortable with death helps us to live fully. He calls this a death practice. It is a derivative and deeper dive of the classic exercise to think about your funeral. He turned it into a kind of thought provoking multisensory "show" of shorts that invites viewers to view life deeper.
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Jimmy Carter enters hospice. Teaches us all about dignity at the end of life and educates us on the work of hospice workers.
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A few days ago, a Facebook memory of my grandfather's passing popped up. His death was perhaps the first time I remember feeling death as a softer thing. I saw God walk with him right to heaven.
To set the stage... It was February in Michigan. It was 70 degrees. There were several new babies to meet. A whole group of extended family spontaneously assembled at my aunts house as if it were Christmas eve. Cards were played. Babies kissed. Grandpa high spirited and healthier than he had been in a while. He beat everyone at the card table (his favorite pastime). I wasn't able to attend since I live out in California, I didn't need to be there. The scene, the smells, the people, the vibe etched in my memory deeper than my conscious mind.
The next morning, I received the news that he had passed in his sleep. I smiled. It was Lent. February in Michigan. Except that one day, usually cold and gray and sunless. I didn't blame him. He celebrated with family one last time then flew off to be with Jesus.
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Life is full of vignettes like this where death draws near. Sometimes terrifying. Tragic. Mysterious. Sacred. But always, God present.
Even in those moments of broken unjust death, we scream into the vast emptiness GOD WHERE ARE YOU NOW? Exactly the same cry we hear from Jesus on the cross. God does not feel present. The raw, dark painful strike to loud, to bright, to overwhelming for God to be perceived. But none the less, God present. Dimly.
I struggle with death on many levels. The theology varies widely even among Christian believers. The convergence of divergent epistemologies that I hold loosely reach a point where everything fades into unknowing.
Like Eddie, I've feared it. I've been paralyzed dreading it. Awake at night gasping for breath.
I've played with my babies laughing and holding all the beautiful things of this earth in my heart and I've grieved it. Why the unknown? This life is just so beautiful.
But, these moments I remember verses, hymns, faith. I am held by these. I find conviction, strength, hope, peace and courage. As love is an action. Faith is a decision. It is not what I know, but it is what I trust.
God is present in death.
Holding us.
Catching us.
Carrying us.
Beyond the horizon that we see, God is.
Lent does not end with good Friday. It goes past the grave. We are greeted by a new light dawning in the garden on Easter morning. Mysterious. Holy. Joyful.
May God enter into your places of grief. Those vast tender spaces and soothe them. May God enter your places of fear. Those jagged, piercing caves and fill them with peace and hope. May God enter your places of dread, the gray gloomy cold harsh landscapes and with them with light.
Death is not easy. But God walks with us in and through it.
Peace be with you.
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