How do you rest in the face of death?
My uncle, my dad’s oldest brother, chose hospice two weeks ago. One week ago, he breathed his last.
I am grateful for the small mercies that hide in the folds of disaster—I just happened to be in a place at a time that allowed me to visit him, to remember with him the value of his almost 90 years, and the ways in which he has blessed us.
There was a time I avoided facing the reality of death as if my life depended on it. But over time, the fears I ignored took up so much space inside of me that there wasn’t much room left for the joy of being alive in the given moment.
My watershed moment came four years ago, at the funeral of someone I didn’t even know.
***
I didn’t know Hermano Salvador. Still, I weep.
Why do I cry like this when this is not my own world shattering loss? I will go home to my normal routine. I will wake up with the privilege of calling my dad whenever I want.
Loved ones file by on the rich carpet of living green, pausing for one last goodbye at the place where the earth opens, a gaping mouth of soil set to swallow the casket.
We sing hymns while the earth is filled in, watching as dust returns to dust beneath a mound of lavish bouquets.
“Thank you for coming…” my friend hugs me and I hold her close, remembering our prayers for her papi.
I weep for Edlin. For the sadness that will follow her on the long road ahead.
But also, I weep for Brian, who is still hanging on for dear life.
I weep for my parents and the passage of time. Eighty some years makes one aware of an actual timeline with an endpoint.
I weep for myself. For my children on the day when they will understand and weep themselves.
I weep for all of us. For the hard parts of being human.
And all these tears bind my heart to the human family in ways that allow me to acknowledge our shared fate.
These tears wash my soul. They clear out those places hiding the anxiety and fear, until there comes a calm acceptance, a peace, a clarity.
The burial is over and it’s time to go. Four generations of women stand side by side and whisper, “now.”
Suddenly, white balloons float upwards, carried by a lifting breeze into a sea of blue sky.
I stand gazing up.
“This same Jesus will come again…” the angel told those disciples of Jesus so long ago (Acts 1:11).
And the clean places in my soul are filled with the hope that we will live again.