It only lasts a minute, maybe two.
and frizzes the ends of your hair.
just there –
off to the side –
Or to the right – see it? – the big red walker,
just there,
the one that carries the frail, flailing, failing body
slowly and carefully from place to place.
the one who died, far too young.
just there –
lurking by the office,
Just there,
in the bright red gauze,
the deepening purple of bruise,
the slow, constant tender aching.
No longer a wraith, but a sharp, clear reflection
in the window pane behind the surgeon’s worried face.
The ever-present visitor that no one
wants to see, to wrestle with, even to acknowledge:
we all age;
we all die.
No one escapes,
no one is immune,
no one is immortal.
But then…
Holy Week arrives,
right in the middle of the muddle,
amid the weariness of watching death in action,
inexorable and overwhelming.
And a tiny green thing begins to wriggle its way
to the surface of your soul.
A sprig, really.
A small, tender shoot of hope and life.
Because somehow,
in the very middle of death itself,
there is this ever-growing wick of light.
As we follow the story
to the upper room,
to the garden,
to the house of the high priest,
to the halls of Herod and Pilate,
through the narrow winding streets
of the city,
up that pathway marked by the blood of Jesus himself –
even there…
even there.
There is a whiff of green, a scent of spring.
EVEN THIS, Jesus knows.
This sinking queasiness, this revelation and recognition
that death is an unavoidable part of life –
Jesus has been here, too.
Jesus has been here ahead of us.
And Jesus walks with us when the
dark, shadowy fears show up and torment us.
Even this, Jesus knows.
So today, and tomorrow, and the next day…
I want to shelter this bit of life amid the ashes;
I want to water it with my tears,
and nourish it with my songs of thanksgiving.
And then I want to position it
just there,
where the sunlight,
streaming forth from the empty tomb,
can help it to grow strong and true,
always and forever stretching toward the Light.
I am weird (I know!), but this reality doesn’t scare me. It’s always in the front of my mind–for me, for everyone. Is it today, Lord?
I’ve had some of these feelings this last week. When my mom passed, they reminded us that the spouse often goes sooner than later. And then the fall. And then the leaving my family who wants me home and wondering if and when I can go home. And watching him and Sissy and I wondering if this headache means we should call the doctor and knowing that the inevitable will come eventually no matter what we do or don’t do, because he’s 85 years old, and then that portion of our life is gone. And it makes my stomach clench and my head ache.
For myself, I think what frightens me the most is whether I’ve done all I could, been all I could.
This is riveting, beautiful, to be kept for more use than just a blog post. Thank you for this down-to-the-death, up-to-the-Life journey of words! Rich blessings in Christ to you this week.
Thanks so much, Sylvia, for your encouragement! And thanks for stopping by. I will bless you right back as you move through Holy Week toward Easter.
I surely know you have been walking this reality right now, Sandy! This constant feeling of being pulled between those who are almost dying and those who are very much living is one of the hardest parts of dealing with the dual reality of aging parents and young grandchildren. Although Megan is right – that it could be any day for any one of us – most of us don’t tend to think through that truth with any intentionality from day to day – it’s just sort of there. Until something happens, or some trigger occurs and it just slaps you hard. You and I both got slapped this last week and that’s tough. But it’s also good, I think, because it’s good to remember that fear is not all there is to this life. And neither is regret, Sandy. We will all have some regrets when our loved ones die and I do truly believe that those regrets must be released to the care of our Savior. By God’s grace, we do the best we can and somehow, God makes it enough. Please be free from that piece of this fear this week, Sandy. You are doing all of it very well indeed. Your heart is beautiful. Period. And that, too, is because you have followed Jesus on the way.
Okay, I’m just guessing here – but I imagine this may be attributable to the fact that you lived with this reality for your mom from a very young age. That does not make you weird, Megan. It makes you exquisitely aware of life and death issues, more so than most of us. And there may be blessing in that – a deliverance of sorts from some of the stuff that sometimes haunts the rest of us.
It was such a humbling experience to write my eulogy for our latest class. I wasn’t prepared for the strong reaction I had. I don’t know why it takes us by surprise when, as you say, it’s everywhere. But we were made for eternity, right? That’s what is in our hearts. Beautiful post, Diana. Feeling very close to this as we journey through Holy week.
When you wrote about that experience, I thought it was a fascinating assignment – and an intimidating one. And YES, eternity is in our hearts…but this earthly life, it’s in our cells, our very DNA, and we feel it. Yes we do.
All I can say, today, is Yes. And as I’m missing my grandmother, I’m clinging to the hope of the resurrection and the beautiful, joyful reunion.
Thank you, Jen. I’m missing people, too so I’m right there, clinging with you. May you have a truly blessed Easter experience this year, Jen. Love to you.
In so many ways we are reminded, but our kinsman redeemer knows that feeling too, of mortality… and that little sprig of hope is there and growing… sheltering and watering with you…. such lovely thoughts, friend.
Thank so much for stopping by and leaving encouraging words. Blessings on your Holy Week and Easter remembrances and celebration!
Yes! How awesome that death has lost it’s sting. I need to be reminded of this daily. Thank you!
Amen! Thanks for coming by, Kim. Always glad to see you here. Blessed Easter to you and yours!
Death all around. But Life? Even more. Praising God for the way He brings light into the darkest places; how He brings the fragrance of Christ to overpower the stench of sin and death.
Much love to you this Easter.
Thanks for stopping by, Jennifer. Hope your Easter celebrations were filled with life and joy!
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