Death be not proud; just be gone. It's time to live again

One of the books I read in junior high school, among the first "grown up" works of my then-nascent adventure with the written word, was John Gunther's "Death Be Not Proud."

 It was a book that touched my heart and soul, perhaps stirring the first deep questions I had about the meaning of life.

I had first, having always had a love for history, read Gunther's "Berlin Diary," a journal of his work as a foreign correspondent reporting on Germany during Hitler's rise to power and up until his expulsion as World War II erupted. (Note: Worth reading now, when fascism has found its soulmates on both the right and the left extremes; here's a link to the text: https://bit.ly/2L5I30o)

So, I picked up "Death Be Not Proud" next at my school's library.  It was a heart-breaking, heart-warming, intimate memoir of the ultimately fatal struggle of Gunther's teenage son, John, against brain cancer. (Here's a link to the book's movie adaption: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hDJvJiDcouU

The book and movie take their titles from one of John Donne's so-called "Holy Sonnets," which in turn were inspired by Paul's words in 1 Corinthians 15:55: "O death, where is your sting? O Hades, where is your victory?"

Specifically, Gunther chose a passage from Donne's 10th poem in the series. (Click on the hyperlink to read the whole sonnet, and forgive the author's dated spellings . . . you'll figure it out. But in summary, the message is this:

Death be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so . . .
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt die

 

I was about 14 when I first read those words, quoted in Gunther's book. Now, more than half a century later, I think of them again. Especially this year, 2019, Death has almost been a specter with some indescribable substance for my family. Both my parents gone and buried within three months of each other, and funeral reunions with a dwindling number of older relatives. 

 

So, where am I going with all this? Certainly, my blog this year has been rather somber at times, balanced, I hope, with the hope of faith. So, yes, you are probably as tired of death as I am. Too many goodbyes of late; time for more hellos.

I'm determined to say "hello" more often to Life, Love, and Light in my remaining years, however many or few they may be. I will pray, work out my salvation in actions driven by, I hope, deeper humility toward my God, and a decidedly more Christlike attitude toward others.

The Church Fathers and traditions of my Eastern Orthodox faith provide a rich narrative and examples on how to do the former. The latter will require openness, and suspending (better, eliminating) self-righteous judgment of my fellow humans in order to show them the Love I desire to shine from within.

I'll try to share that journey here. Stay tuned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Memories and Eulogies: Snapshots of lives lived, and eternity gained

 This week, my mother's remains were buried with those of my father. It was the second trip to this gravesite in three months. 

 Now, they are together again here, and in the Light of Christ.

 This is what we believe, this faith, this hope.

 These are some select memories I shared as we said goodbye to her, on breezy, late summer day at my parents' shared, cliffside plot overlooking the Spokane River:

As we went from one little church pastorate to another, Mom seemed to attract hangers-on. Ancient old ladies, mostly, who would be a little less lonely with her regular visits. She’d bring some cake or cookies, and they would brew up some coffee. And they would chat for an hour or more.

There would be laughter, hugs and promises to come back again. Mom kept those promises, and she often took me along -- usually to the tiny home of one kindly, nearly blind and all-but-deaf widow of a German farmer.

It was boring, I would argue; the woman’s house always too hot, and then there were the smells. Let’s just say you might think she had a house-full of incontinent cats – though she had no pets other than two parakeets, with whom she held frequent conversations.

My own grandmothers had long since passed, so Mom made this lady my honorary “Grandma.” At first, it was just how Mom insisted I address her. “Grandma,” after all, had no family of her own, and she cared for me like a grandson . . . so, for crying out loud, I could reciprocate. And I did, with more conviction as the years went on.

It was one of Mom’s many lessons in compassion, taught in actions no one else might see, or if they did, understand in their depth.

...

But Mom had a different approach to how Christians were to handle bullies. Dad always told me to not hit back, just walk, or run away; turn the other cheek, or cheeks, as the case may be. But in a tiny central Washington farm town, Wilbur, other kids thought beating up the preacher’s kid was just great fun; they didn’t get this holy, bruised example of the Gospel, at all.

During one scramble home from school with three of these devils on my heels, I got tackled into my own garbage can. My tormenters scattered, but Mom heard the commotion. She cleaned me up, and then taught me how to make a fist.

 Don’t ever hit first, she said. But after that, well, a straight shot to the nose, or a punch to the stomach usually would end things. OK, I sniffled, and practiced making the fist. “Tighter,” she said, tucking my fingers into my palm. “And don’t let your thumb stick out like that. It could get broken.”

Then, Mom walked me over to where the three were hiding across the street. She told the boys I had been ordered not to fight back, but that was done. And, she invited them – one at a time – to fight me.

What? I gulped a stood there, looking as resolute as possible. But there were no takers that day. There were later that week on the school playground. And lo and behold, Mom was right – giving one of those surprised brats a bloody nose stopped the fight, as she predicted. There were a couple other fights, but before we left Wilbur to pastor another church, those kids were playmates and friends.

...

Flash forward. I was a young married man, just starting out on my journalism career. Mom would call me and invite me to coffee. We’d just talk, laugh; she’d ask questions, interested in what I was doing. And she’d give me advice on marriage – and some of it made me blush, to be honest.

She always knew when I was going through a rough patch, too. Out of the blue there would come a phone call, and she wouldn’t hang up without praying for me. But then, I knew she always prayed for me.

That stemmed from one last childhood memory. I was 8, and teasing my sister. Mom told me to stop it, and told me to put away my clothes. I didn’t want to. “OK, I’ll just pray for you then, Bobby,” she said.

I went to play with some toys, when, as if there was a loudspeaker inside my brain, I heard my name in a deep, and clearly disappointed voice. I ran to Mom, stammered an apology, and told her what had happened. She just smiled slightly, nodded, and hugged me.

That was my Mom. Earth was, and now Heaven is, a better place because of who God created her to be.

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A long, sweet goodbye: A prayer for the dead, a comfort for the grieving

Jesus, she fell asleep in hope as did Nature before the cold winter. 
Jesus, rouse her when the thorns of the earth are clothed in the light of eternity.

Those lines are from the Eastern Orthodox Christian "Akathist to Jesus Christ for a Loved One who has Fallen Asleep."  They are just a couple of many beautiful phrases and divine petitions contained within this ancient form of poetic prayer, one I have repeated daily for the past 40 days since my mother passed away.

And as a believer, those words are true as both art and statement of faith; so, to me, are the others spread throughout the Akathist's 2,400 words and 13 Kontakions (a thematic hymn form dating back to Byzantium and the 6th Century). Believe it or not, at "only" 13, it is on the short side among the many akathists preserved by the Ancient Church.

This was my second cycle of this Akathist this year. My father, Robert Sr., died at 96 years old; we buried him in late March. My mother, Katherine, 91, died in late June, a little more than three months after Dad passed, holding hands with her as they both slept at the Cheney Care Center, outside Spokane, Washington.

Their passings, however anticipated, have been bittersweet for me. Stroke-induced dementia in my Dad's case, and the final stages of Alzheimer's disease, in my Mom's situation, combined with the physical frailties of extreme old age to rob them of not just memory and then awareness, but left them in pain that only increasingly strong medications could ease.

I mourn them, and I celebrate their release -- and the emptiness within my heart wrestles daily with the relief I feel for the end to their sufferings, and the hope we shared as a family in Christ.

Now, having completed the Akathist for my Mom last night, it is the emptiness that has once more opened like a raw, bleeding wound. It's difficult to explain, unless you have prayed for your dead, but during those 40 days of reaching beyond this material world into the next, there was a . . . connection.

Call it a confirmation of another line from the Akathist: Jesus, union of love placed between those who have fallen asleep and those among the living.

For the past nearly seven weeks, I've had that connection. It has been both a time of souls embracing across the abyss, and a prolonged, inexplicably sweet goodbye.

Now, memories will have to do. For Mom, they will be bolstered in the telling, shared with family and friends on August 22, when her remains join those of my father, buried at Fairmont Memorial Park outside Spokane. Then we will hug each other, linger, and leave, our lives continuing . . . for a while.

Until, Mom and Dad, we meet again.