I met her late in her life. They had known about the mass in her belly for about a year. `Only a matter of time before it bursts,’ they had said. `Will it be over quickly?’ she had asked. `Quickly,’ they answered.
So….now has been foretold the hour of her passing; and the cause assigned; such news easier to tell than to hear.
This morning I woke up and looked over my list of chores. This list is written down; some chores fun; some not; jobs necessary for living.
But there is another list; nowhere written down; another list of Chores; some fun, some not; but all of them important; jobs necessary for life. This `list’ cannot be scheduled. It is strewn subtly through our days; the tasks revealed slowly. This is one. For reasons I cannot fathom – but reasons there must be – she and I are alone in this room.
She lay in front of me dying, wrapped in the cerements and shrouds we call a hospital gown. No need for all the clinical stuff and taking of pulses – we’re past all that. The river has whispered her name. I hold her brown-spotted, arthritic hands; what else is there to do?
She is old. But if you erase the wrinkles, the spots – all the signs of a life long-lived – she must have once been a `looker.’ But then, trying to see us from the Creator’s eyes, I conclude that to God, we are all `lookers ‘- even if we are not…
I bethought me of the old story I read in a book by Max Lucado; a story called, “Beethovan’s Harpsichord”. In old age, Beethovan went stone-deaf. It must have seemed strange to see him playing a harpsichord – with several broken strings – and crying softly at the beauty of the `sound.’
The answer lies in Beethovan’s gift: he could hear the notes in his mind. So it was beside the point that the harpsichord was broken. He cried for the beauty of the music it could have made…had it not been broken.
I am – each of us sometimes are – our Creator’s harpsichord.
I look back to my lady; to my new friend, and fall back to thinking: From first breath to final sigh, good-byes are a part of living. I am not afraid to die – not any more. I wonder when that riveting fear fell away from me?
I’m not afraid to die alone either…I don’t think. Alone I came to Earth and alone I must depart; even if I happen to be surrounded by loved ones. Death only comes in one form and all forms of dying have this in common: it’s do-it-yourself.
So for now, I’ll just hold her hand; maybe for her sake; maybe for mine. Who knows?
But in so doing, I am reminded that it is our task – our human obligation – all of us:
To walk each other Home . . .
Lucky Garvin
