The blog that follows has been sitting in my computer for days. I was unsure about sharing it. But, since my mind will not move on until I do, here it is.
In this past month, a long time friend, Beth Yolton, and my first cousin, Sister Rosemary Budd, died. My husband and I went to the Mercy Center in Dallas, PA for Rosemary’s service and we officiated at a graveside service for Beth in Concord, MA.
Sister Rosemary was beloved by everyone, was loving, sharp, interested in the world, and had a keen sense of justice inspired by her deep faith. She was 91. Her face reminded me of my father and she was my last first-cousin.
Beth was 58 when she died. She was an intelligent and artistic woman who also had an active faith and a keen sense of justice. She was troubled by what she called,”‘a physical disorder of my brain,” which she manged well most of the time. It was the disorder of spreading cancer that took her life. As a young woman she had been very much a part of our family and had remained a friend until the end.
After these two women died, Diane, Bill, Beth’s father’s second wife, lost her father. We were brought together again with Bill and Diane through experiencing these losses, theirs being much harder than mine. Diane’s father was 91 like Sister Rosemary.
Facing these deaths has turned my attention to living well as a tribute to those who are gone. And it has caused me to contemplate my own death.
When someone we love dies, it takes time for the fact that they are gone to register. Grieving takes time, and over time, life invariably shifts. One of the Mercy Sisters said, “the one we love is in a better place, we are the ones who have to come to terms with their absence.” What I wish for those I love when my time to die comes, is an easy transition for them as they continue life without me. Not too many tears and a renewed embrace of their own life and love and work. This along with happy memories and forgiveness for the difficult memories.
No one who has ever been a part of our lives is ever fully gone. While each of our lives is our very own to live, we are deeply connected by familial and friendship bonds. No matter how strong those bonds are, the one who leaves is not looking over our shoulder. They have moved on and we must move on. Loss is hard for us on so many levels. Some losses are harder than others. And yet, thankfully, life continues.
Death is, of course, inevitable for all of us. Rosemary lived life to the fullest to the end and, in the end, died in peace. And, in her own way, so did Beth, hanging on to independence with a fierceness as long as she could and then dying with a quiet dignity and faith.
When we visited with Rosemary the summer before she died, she talked about her weakening condition and as she matter-of-factly contemplated death, asked me if I would read Scripture in her service. Then in a twinkling we were off talking about the world and the church and the latest in politics. She was interested in everything and everyone. Even after she lost the use of her legs, she never gave in to self pity nor did she ever seek to run away to the other side, as much as she believed in it. I could feel the joy and sanctity of life in her presence.
Standing by Beth’s bedside as she was dying, I said, “Beth, the Spirit is with you.” And this woman who could barely speak, said with clarity,” I know.” In those moments, Beth ministered to me and strengthened my faith. The Spirit was with both of us.
In a strange way, losing these two women brings me closer to life and to faith. I want to enjoy those I love and spend more time with them. I want to appreciate the ordinary tasks of life. And I want to use my gifts as I can. Having faith as a ground of my being seems right and reasonable and true. And this will follow me even if I am not as with it in the end as they were.
When we lose someone we love, to death, somehow that veil that separates our known world from that unknown realm of resurrection life, can become more transparent, more luminous, less opaque. And yet, I remain grateful for the fact that that veil continues to mark a clear boundary between earth and what we call heaven. The material world is our home while we are living in this world.
We can experience mystery throughout life but we cannot fully lift the veil until it is our time. The Bible has the veil separating the Holy of Holies from the rest of the Temple., splitting in two when Jesus dies.
I have heard the phrase “dying with dignity” often during the past few weeks. We don’t always get to say how we die. Maybe those of us who are left behind are challenged to “live with dignity.” We have more say over that. Death like birth is an Event. Life beyond birth and life beyond death is what matters after the “Event.” When someone dies, they have completed their time on earth and go on to a realm way beyond our comprehension. Those who continue to live are still works in process.
A wise man reminded me that no one ever lives to see the last act of the play in which they are involved before they die. When we die, the play goes on. We all have to leave before we know what happens in the ongoing lives of those we love or the world at large. Of course, I bargain to stay in this material world as long as I can, to be with those I love as long as I am able. A friend declared that she going to live long enough to know the person her grandchildren married. We all have different dreams that we would like to fulfill before passing on. We will realize some of them before we have to slip out before the curtain comes down.
I conclude by reiterating my deepest dream, that my own death not be hard for those I love and will be, for them, an incentive to live life ever more fully. Sister Rosemary and Beth gave me that gift of life along with gracing me with the gift of their lives and of knowing and loving them.