This is the longest night. This is the longest night of the year. Of this year. Of each year. Although I find it difficult to remember prior years. Therefore, this could very well be
the longest night. The night is cold and haunted with the call of train whistles as locomotives haul their cargo between Seattle and Tacoma, as well as to points beyond.
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He must increase, but I must decrease.
—John 3:30
John the Baptist is speaking of his cousin, Jesus of Nazareth, but he could easily be speaking of generations. The grandfather is dying and the father cares for him. I worry about the father, trying to support him. All too soon, even though years from now, the father will die and I will care for him and my children will try to support me, albeit awkwardly. Then, assuming the world hasn't swallowed itself in melted ice caps or choked on its own poisoned breath or gone fallow due to acidic oceans and dust bowl prairies, I too will die and children and grandchildren will play their roles. Or, perhaps not. Perhaps I will die in a bed, alone, without those I love nearby.
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My paternal grandfather has asked me to deliver his eulogy. I am honored. I am saddened. I am scared. I wrote and delivered the eulogies of both of my grandmothers, but it was at the request of their children—my parents and aunts and uncles—after they had died. This is different. In this case,
he has asked.
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I felt like Icarus, near death in the snow, with melting skis instead of wings.
—page 17,
Grace (Eventually) by Anne Lamott
As my grandmother died, removed from the machines that were helping her breathe, I had plenty of time to both observe her in detail and to think and reflect. Her long, lithe hands were mine, or, rather, my hands resembled hers.
Now I flounder. I try to remember those hands. Her hands were so soft, even though the rest of her body seemed so much older than it was. She was an alcoholic and a smoker and her body reflected her vices. Except for her hands.
In her final hours in ICU, my grandmother slept beneath a large heater that regulated her skin temperature, to keep her comfortable as she died. Her skin was warm to the touch, but her hands were especially warm. Warm and soft. At times, they felt as though they were too warm, too soft, too full of life for her to die. Yet, we all must fly too close to the sun at some point. The wax of our wings must melt away and we must plummet into the waiting loam below. Until we hit the bedrock and our bones settle there in eternal sleep.
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There are deaths I've not gotten over yet; but somehow, over time, the acute helplessness of death has become merely painful.
—page 30,
Grace (Eventually) by Anne Lamott
I received a card from my church yesterday. It is written by an anonymous hand. It reads...
John 14:18
I will not leave you comfortless; I will come to you.
Dear Troy:
Please know that you are in our prayers as you prepare your hearts and homes for this first Advent and Christmas without your grandmother. May the words of the text and music of this Advent season assure you of God's continual presence and promised future as your hope in the midst of your grief and your comfort in the reality of [maternal grandmother's first name]'s absence.
God's peace, love, and hope,
Your [name of congregation] church family.
Amen. There is healing in community, in burdens shared. Grace comes in many times and places and faces, and most of those unannounced. God is enfleshed, at times, in the people of my church. I know this. I have seen it too many times. I believe it.
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Some etymologists give the Greek "to see for oneself" as the source for the English word "autopsy." An alternative, "seeing into oneself," is hard to overlook when one studies the work of the sixteenth-century Belgian anatomist Vesalius.—from "The Fabric: A Poet's Vesalius" by Heather McHugh,
Poetry, December 2007
Is sleep a simulation of death? A dress rehearsal? Perhaps this is why I seem to fight it. I have so many things that I want to do, so many books I want to read, so many moments where I want to drink a beer and watch the sun set or have a cup of hot vanilla tea as the wind and rain bluster outside. Yet sleep feels so good. It is refreshing to awake from a good nap or a long night of slumber.
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I never used to nap. Now, I find that I definitely need a nap on Sunday afternoons. And, on occasion, I sneak one in once or twice some other day of the week. In the early afternoon or the early evening.
The paternal grandfather sleeps and naps all of the time now that he is closer to death. I joked with him that he was like a cat. He chuckled and agreed. He stared off into space as though he was thinking about his feline self.
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Dreams: are they our way of fighting off death as we sleep? I tend not to remember my dreams. The ones that I do remember are infrequent and typically brief. What does this say about me?
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I am counted among those who go down to the Pit; I am like those who have no help, like those forsaken among the dead, like the slain that lie in the grave, like those whom you remember no more, for they are cut off from your hand.—Psalm 88:4-5
If a boy cries aloud in the Pit, but there is no one there to hear him, to remember him, does he make a sound? Does he have a voice?
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Despite my parents' desperate attempts to stir up a blaze, our house didn't get any warmer. My brother and I clung to each other, watching as frost flowers bloomed on the walls. Then my mother screamed. At that same moment my brother and I saw the fire die.—page 5,
Tonguecat by Peter Verhelst
Cold and dark, both enemies mine: thief of warmth and thief of light. Without them, there is only death and cold and dark. The breadline means nothing to a full belly.
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Tonight I will retire to the loving arms of my savior. And we will walk through his gates to the skies of heaven. No more tears will I cry. All my sins, are they forgiven?—from “Tonight I Will Retire” by Damien Jurado, as found on the album
Ghost of David
This is the longest night. This is the longest night of the year. The house is quiet. The wife is sleeping. The child is sleeping. Elsewhere, the grandfather is sleeping, preparing for death. The father is sleeping in a nearby room because the grandfather is afraid. He doesn't want to be alone.
The cat is wandering about, pacing. The cat is waiting for me to settle upon the couch to read. The cat wants to steal the warmth of my lap. The cat wants to sleep in the presence and company of another.
This will happen, soon. Then, I will open my book. I will begin to read.
I
will read. Alone.
