Archive for the ‘Death’ Tag
This is a lovely essay by Annie Louise Twitchell
The bee is grounded on the hot asphalt in the grocery store parking lot. She’s taking a few slow steps but she won’t fly and it will take her far too long to find safety.
I crouch and pick her up. She wanders the unfamiliar landscape of my hand but she seems to like the warmth.
The flower planter is across the driveway and I take her over and slide her off onto a flower but she turns quickly and climbs back into my hand. She refuses to leave so I take her back and look closer; that’s when I see the injury, a long slash across her thorax. She sits still on my hand and I realize she hasn’t moved her wings the entire time.
I think she is dying.
I ask her again to sit among the flowers but she clings now to my fingers and I give up. I go back to the car, buckle one-handed, drive home one-handed. She rests in my open palm, soaking in the warmth from my skin.
There are no flowers at home, this late in the season, so I go to my aunt’s house to the flower garden there. I sit in the long grass next to the rows of flowers and I listen to the other bees working and I just hold my bee.
It is almost an hour before her movements become uncoordinated and confused. She lurches around on my hand and then slowly she stops moving.
I wait, forgetting to breathe, watching her. How do you know when a bee is dead? I don’t know. So I wait a little more, then I carefully slide her off my hand into the flower bed. I leave her there, hidden under the blossoms, and I stand up.
This is the first lesson.
Three years later I come home from class. We have learned how to try to stop someone from dying, how to negotiate with death, how to bargain for a little more life. It is late when I get home.
I walk into the kitchen and my rabbit B is standing up, leaning out the open door of her house, waiting for me. Her ears are tinged blue and her mouth is open as she gasps for air and I know, all at once, that she is dying. And I know that unlike most rabbits she is waiting for me.
I sit down on the floor and B flings herself out of her house into my lap. I lift her into my arms and all she wants to do is lean into my warm body. I have known her since the hour she was born and she has never asked to be held except for this moment, now, at the end of her life, but for such a silent creature her request echoes through the house.
I remember the bee.
I hold her, adjusting her position so she can breathe a little easier. She pushes her head under my hand, burrowing in for safety, and I let her.
I hold her. What else can I do? What can anyone do? I want to ease her suffering but she is already very close to the end. So I hold her, for a few minutes more, until I let her go.
This is the second lesson.
I have never seen an animal so distraught. My dog lunges at the dead rabbit in my arms, pushing at her head and mouth, whining and crying. She knows something is wrong: she wants B to breathe.
I hold her now, too, a dead rabbit in one arm and a frantic dog in the other. After a while I rest B in a box for the night and I take my pup upstairs, shut her in my room to sleep. For days she is listless and depressed, constantly sniffing B’s house, checking to see if she’s come back. I bribe her to eat with a bagel and cream cheese from the Cafe. I coax her out on walks. I ask her what she needs and when she does not know I do my best to figure it out.
This is the third lesson. I think this is the hardest.
Lesson One: Be there. Be open. Be willing to walk this road even if it might hurt.
Lesson Two: Know when to let her go. Know when to step back. Know when to say goodbye.
Lesson Three: The ones left behind need more care then the ones who died. Let the dead rest and let the others grieve.
My father’s mind began to wane several years ago, and friends encouraged him to give up writing and preaching. He acquiesced begrudgingly since losing his public ministry made him feel useless. When visiting him, one of those friends would ask, “How are you?” and dad would always say, “Terrible!” “Why?” “Because I’m still alive!” He was ready to “go home” and last week he finally did. I expect he was greeted with my mom’s loud, raucous laughter echoing through the halls of heaven.
Family, friends, and colleagues remembered him with admiration at his funeral. He was a good man and a gifted leader, a hero to many. Years ago he asked me if I had any heroes, anyone I admired and sought to emulate. He expected me to point to him and was sad when I didn’t. Though I respect him, I cannot emulate him any more than an ostrich can emulate an eagle. An ostrich hatched by an eagle would simply be lost and confused and self-condemning as long as he tried to imitate the eagle, and all the eagle’s encouragement, advice, and example on how to be a better eagle would only make matters worse.
To his credit, dad eventually made room for my way of being, though he couldn’t understand it. He tried to understand, but he was stuck in his own framework of thinking, as though the eagle saw his ostrich son running and interpreted it to be “low flying” or “slow take-off.” His efforts to accommodate my way of being were inspired by love. Instead of treating me like a deformed eagle, he accepted me as a mystery (because he was unable to grasp the idea of an ostrich). I’m forever grateful that he did not condemn me for who I am and how I live. For that reason, although our viewpoints were so contrary, we were never estranged.
And yet we drifted apart. As I slowly discovered my true self and tried to share it with him, I could not make it comprehensible to him. He could not see outside his own box, and so our relationship devolved into general, disconnected niceties because real relationship requires mutual understanding. Over the years, I have grieved the loss of that relationship as I think he did, and so his home-going was only the final step in that loss. It is sad, but the tears have long since run their course. When I see him again, he will see me for who I am, and that is cause for rejoicing.
In the meantime I will give him his well-deserved honor. God made him an eagle and he was determined to be the best eagle he could be and raise up a huge flock of eagles to follow in his flight. He was admirably successful. For that he will be remembered for a generation. I am glad for those he blessed.
As I said in my last post, I am stuck with God. When Jesus got weird on his disciples (John 6), many of them left. He asked his twelve, “Will you leave too?” and Peter answered, “Where else can we go?” Yes. Exactly. We’re in the middle of the ocean, freezing cold, living on bread, squatting on steel decks and the captain of the boat says, “Feel free to leave.” And where would that be? Trust me, we are not staying because we like it here. St. Teresa of Avila once complained to God, “If this is the way you treat your friends, it’s no wonder you have so few!”
As I ended my last post, this story in John came to mind, and I felt bad for not having Peter’s good attitude. He answered Jesus, “Lord, to whom shall we go, you have the words of eternal life.” I heard Peter saying, “You’ve got it all–peace, joy, fulfillment. Why would we leave? We like it here.” I was confusing ‘eternal life’ with ‘the good life’… spiritually speaking, of course–the delights of fellowship with God. What was I thinking? You want encouragement of the Biblical kind? Acts 14 tells us that the apostle Paul was “strengthening the souls of the disciples, encouraging them to continue in the faith,” –what was his supportive message?– “and saying, ‘Through many tribulations we must enter the kingdom of God.’” What ever happened to “If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands”?
Jesus’ message was loony: “Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you have no life.” These are the “words of eternal life” to Peter? Everyone was stumped, and many left Jesus over this cannibal homily–“If we understand what he is saying, it’s a problem… and if we don’t understand what he is saying, it’s a problem.” Simon Peter, for all his flowery speech, was just as baffled. Had he known Jesus spoke of his own sacrificial death, Peter would have corrected the Son of God himself. For Peter, this was the one thing the “words of eternal life” could not possibly mean–the cross.
I think in all his fog, Impetuous Pete spoke the truth after all. There is nowhere else to go because these are the words of eternal life, even if it leads through more pain and perplexity than other roads. Those who stayed with Jesus after this sermon did so in confusion, not clarity, but they found him worth trusting right through the dark. Even Peter finally followed him to his own crucifixion. That is the one serious problem with resurrection–you have to die to get there.
Janathan Grace Reflections 