My sister recently asked me what affects me most at my emotional core–either positively or negatively. She tossed me a softball, and I totally whiffed. The OBVIOUS answer for anyone of my age who lives in New England was “the year 2004”. Instead, after a moment of self-reflection, I said “death.”
For those who don’t live in New England, “the year 2004” will be an opaque reference, so let me briefly explain. Before 2004, the Boston Red Sox had not won a World Series since 1918. They came close a couple times, only to be denied due to some flukes of baseball (most notably a little league error by He Who Cannot Be Named in 1986). But they won in 2004. And before 2004, the Patriots had never won a Super Bowl. They came close in 1986, but lost to a team that made music videos and whose most memorable player carried the nickname of a kitchen appliance. The Pats won in 2004. Exultation. Serious exultation.
Even so, when my sister asked the question, “2004” didn’t register in any of my neuronal paths. Only “death” did. Maybe that is not a very surprising answer for most people, but it was still a bit of a revelation to me since I thought I had a clear and healthy view of death: it is certain and unavoidable, but also not the final word for those of us who are people of faith. Sad, yes, but still.
As some context, I am not a sentimental or expressive person. “Even-keeled” is not uncommonly attributed to me. I find that ironic since I can’t sail to save my life. Now admittedly, I will mist up in a movie when the main character overcomes a tough situation (Brian’s Song gets me every time I watch it), but I don’t even need double digits to count the bona fide crying episodes in my life and they are nearly all linked to death.
One of these episodes was in the days just after 9/11. My church organized a time of prayer, and I, dutifully–and not much more than that–went to intercede for those who were suffering in our country. But here’s the kicker: I ended up weeping. I didn’t personally know anyone who had died in New York, Pennsylvania or Arlington, but I was undone at that meeting. If it were not for my wife’s touch (she held my hand, squeezing it during my sobbing), I think the sorrow might have turned into something more ugly. None of those deaths made any sense.
Other deaths have hit closer to home. My brother-in-law died young from a brain tumor less than a year after marrying my sister. I kept it together outwardly when my father offered a powerful prayer in the hospital chapel, but I fell apart when I called my (at that point, future) wife to let her know that he was gone. [She is starting to play an important role in this blog post]. How could my sister be widowed when she was so young? That is a cruel fate.
My aunt, who was a saint if there ever was one, died of cancer before she got to know her grandchildren. Their lives would have been so very enriched to have interacted with her. She was a special person. On a cold, blustery day in Massachusetts, the time at her graveside was…bad, good, I don’t know, hard to process. With my wife at my side, the tears came on strong. My aunt had lived well. She was still young and vital. How was this untimely departure from the world understandable?
There are others. My grandmother–I can can still barely get through “It is Well with My Soul” in church because of how those verses summoned something deep within me at her funeral. My cousin’s husband–his charisma and vibrancy were maddeningly incompatible with an early death. The suicide of a High School friend–why were his demons so persistent and unshakable?
In thinking about all of this, I have an even deeper appreciation that, at the center of our being, humans sense that death/suffering is not the way it is supposed to be. There is something wrong with it. We were created for life; we were created to thrive. Death is the slap-you-in-the-face reminder that there is a tear in the fabric of our reality that needs mending. Death casts aspersions on everything we believe to be good and meaningful. No wonder it draws us into places our hearts and minds only go on occasion.
And I’m struck by how deep-sorrow is not only permitted, but also wonderfully enabled by the presence of those who love us deeply and intimately. The squeeze of the hand says “I wish you weren’t hurting, but it is alright to hurt. Go ahead and feel this pain right now”. The longer-than-usual embrace in a moment of weeping signals so beautifully that love is stronger than even death, as unlikely as that sounds. The steady presence of a partner by one’s side builds into us an experienced–and therefore, trustworthy–knowledge that we aren’t meant to be alone, and we are not alone, no matter how isolating our grief can feel.