I learned just now that my mother has passed away. I did not need to be told. The phone ringing in the middle of the night was enough. And because others have opened their hearts to me in times of their own death, I am not in uncharted territory. Thanks to them, I recognize this sad and beautiful land all too well.
I’ve learned a few things about death over the years. Death does not seem such a mystery to me. I am not so much comforted by static images of heaven as in that cosmic process to which the symbol “heaven” refers. We are born out of it and we dissolve back into it. What we think of as life and death are modulations of something deeper than either. Whether we call that mystery “matter” or “spirit” is a matter of semantics. The experience of life is surely beyond either of those categories.
As my mind fills with grateful memories to the woman who taught me so much, feel the need to sing a silent anthem to the river of life who gave such a gift. We do not belong to each other but to life. To love nature does not mean only to love trees and animals, we must also learn to love our death as well as our birth, for life is endless change.
We are not the flickering consciousness that hovers above such living and dying. We are not some static observer left behind by the flow of the river. We do not stand at the shoreline watching everything else change, we too belong to the flux.
As a fish might, in times of storm, find peace by going deeper into the current, so may we in times of grief and pain go deep enough into our grief to find that life and death are threads in a seamless garment. Above all, we must not hover above life as an imagined observer, we must go deep.
There in the depths of life we are comforted by the universality of death. And so it is with any grief. This is not my grief, it belongs to us all. Grief is the painful trophy given to all who have had the privilege of loving. I have been by the side of those whose greatest wish at the end was to make their death into a gift to others. They shared their fears and their acceptance with me at that most intimate moment. And now at this sad time, in the dead of night, I hold their precious gift.
I, too, want to share the gift. I want to learn and teach that when we receive the call, as we all eventually do, at the death of the dearest of friends and especially as we approach our own death, we must remember to go deep.
I’m so sorry for your loss and so thankful that you shared this.
Thank you, Jim, for posting this beautiful comment. I will save it to reread during the times I feel the way you do now. Love to you.
Thanks Nancy. I appreciate that.
You teach with beauty and dignity even in this time of grief. The reminder… no, more than reminder, the encouragement and counsel, the loving push to go deep is so needed by us all in this culture that skims the surface, avoids the depths, “hovers above”, as you said, tends to engage the trivial as if it mattered while drawing back from deep engagement with what is truly significant. Thank you for reaching out with this inspiration, and know of the thoughts and the solidarity of concern and support that accompanies you in this journey.
Thank you Ginny. I always enjoy your writing.
Jim,
Thank you for sharing this with us. The gift of life and love through your mother and you to all around you is deeply appreciated. We weep for the night, but joy comes in the mo(u)rning. 4/25/13–09:13 CDT
Thank you Bob.
Thanks, Jim, for these insights. I especially liked your use of the word “modulation”. Same song, different key. Similar to variations on the same tune. Blessings.
Thanks David.
Jim, I am so sorry for the loss of such a special person. Thank you for sharing this very poetic and heartfelt tribute to life and death. Will and I will hold you in our hearts. -Amy Blackmon
Thank you Amy. That means a lot.
My Mom passed away last November. Your thoughts and your journey take me back there now.
My heart opens to you and to the universe where their two souls have met. I’d like to think that they
Look back at us – and smile.
Thank you Ken. I had not heard about your mom. I realized at the time this is something most of us go through at some point or another. I appreciate you taking the time to write.
Jim,
Even in your time of grief you manage to not only be eloquent, but also to comfort others. We are so grateful to your Mother for raising the person you became (and of course, Mr. Monkey). I hope you can somehow feel the love and concern your congregation and so many are feeling for you. Even though I understand “The Call”, the thought of it still causes a sharp pain in my heart when others experience it. Peace be with you.
Thank you Nancy. I very much feel the love and support of friends.
I am certain she was wonderful to have instilled so much spirit in her son. You must have given her years of pride and peace. Thanks for being there.
I hope so, thank you Bill.
I am so sorry for your loss, and so awed by your perspective. I lost my Mom two years ago, and our relationship has not ended, but it has changed, from one of presence to one of memory. In time more of those have made me smile, though many still make me cry. The mix changes, but the void never closes. Wishing you the poeace and comfort that comes from love and good memories.
“Be not sad that such a woman has passed on; instead be joyful that she was here with us for a time.”
Thank you Steve. My mom actually passed away a year ago. I don’t know if someone reposted it on the anniversary of her death, but you are kind to write. I echo the same wishes for you in remembering your mother.
Prayers of love and healing as you recognize those threads of life and death in your own journey.
Deep peace to you and your family.
Lorna
Thank you Lorna. This happened about a year ago so maybe someone reposted it. Thank you for the kind words.
Dear Jim,
Do you remember Evelyn Dickson from John Calvin? I remember that after her husband died she told you that no one ever kissed her anymore. Your response was to always greet her with a Kiss. So perfect. So kind.
I’m not sure why I’m recalling this on the occasion of your Mother’s passing………perhaps you learned such kindness from her.
I was 56 when my mother died. She had lived with Gary and I for 25 years. At this moment I’m thinking of you and your mother and me and my mother.
Sending Love to you, Carolyn P.
Yes I do remember her, Carolyn. I was there with her when she died years later. She was a very loving person. Thank you Carolyn.