My extended family has experienced two deaths recently. Two elderly family members passed away 12 days apart. Even though they were both expected and brought an end to physical suffering, it hits hard that they both came so close together. We are grieving.
In addition, I’ve been reading poets like Mary Oliver and Ross Gay, both of whom capture true joy and delight in simple things like a walk in the woods or picking fruit from a mulberry tree. At the same time, they both write explicitly about death: their own death and the deaths of loved ones. Having an active awareness of death and the fleeting nature of our earthly lives enables both of them to embrace the joy of this life more urgently and fervently.
All of this has me think a lot more about my own death. When my Grandmother approached her aging years, she often said that she was “getting friendlier with death.”
So following my grandmother’s lead, for the rest of January as everyone else is worshiping at the altar of health and wellness, I will be getting friendlier with death and sharing my musings with you. Click here to start at Part 1.
If contemplating death makes you feel like running screaming toward the nearest vast wasteland, you are in good company. And this topic may hit closer to home with you depending on where you are right now. I invite you to take a deep breath, be gentle with yourself, and take on as much as you can right now.
Part 2 – What I’m Really Afraid Of
Anytime I think about dying, the first image that springs to my mind is my kids. What I’m really afraid of is dying while my kids are young and picturing what their lives would be like if I died anytime in the next 10-15 years (and especially in the next 10-15 months).
My youngest is 8.5 as I write this. So, I at least know that if I die soon, they will both remember me. That is at least some comfort.
I also take comfort thinking about people who have lost one or both parents and lived full lives. Especially notable or historical people like Babe Ruth, Nelson Mandela, Alexander Hamilton, Ella Fitzgerald, and of course Harry Potter. Somehow this brings me comfort knowing that others have gone through the death of a parent at a young age and that my kids wouldn’t be alone in their experience or grief.
After all, my children are ultimately not mine. Of course as their mother, I have a unique and significant role in their lives. But when it comes down to it, they are children of God who are entrusted to my care for a time. I can start trusting God now to take care of them when I’m not there since I have less and less influence as they grow. I don’t mean to diminish how sizable an impact my death would have on them. But, I need to trust that God’s providing care is already at work in their lives independent of me and that they will be cared for.
So I’m writing a letter to leave my children. It would be nice to never have to give it to them because I die of old age and having told them everything I wanted in our last years together. Yet, right now, there’s so much more I want to tell them, and I can’t imagine dying without leaving them something.
I have some general ideas of what I want to say. But it has just been so painful to sit down and write. I’m tearing up just now thinking about it.
My journey becoming friendlier with death brings me here, and I’m not running away.
There’s no way to encompass everything I want to say over the course of the rest of their lives. But, I know that having something like this would be so meaningful to them and worth more than the tears and discomfort it takes for me to write it.
What I want to tell my kids after I die
It’s not your fault.
Whatever it is you think you might have done to cause, or could have done to prevent my death, it’s not true. It isn’t your fault! Even in indirect of abstract ways, do not blame yourself.I know you feel sad now, and you’ll probably feel sad off and on for a while. Don’t be afraid of your grief and pain. It isn’t bottomless. Keep talking about your feelings and moving toward your pain instead of trying to push it down. There are always people to talk to; seek them out if you’re not sure who they are. Or if you don’t cry very much or you’re not sure what you feel, that’s ok too.
Don’t think that being sad all the time shows the world and yourself how much you loved me. Feeling happy in life isn’t a betrayal! There’s enough grief in the world, and in your lives now. Grab moments of joy when you find them. Laugh, and delight in them!
I wish I could be there physically during times that are important to you: milestones, ceremonies, and accomplishments. I will still be with you in spirit of course, but I know it doesn’t feel the same to you. I also wish I could be there for little moments: questions about laundry, or budgets, or how you know it’s time to end a relationship.
If you want to tell me something or ask me a question, go ahead and ask – say it out loud if you want. Pretend you’re giving me a call. You won’t hear my voice in the same way you did when I was alive. But, be open to the answer coming anyway, either from God directly, from my spirit in you, or from your own wise and discerning selves.
Speaking of God, let me just say that God didn’t take me from you. And it’s ok to be angry at God or ask why – go ahead and rail against God, don’t hold back.
And then keep praying. I’m not here to micromanage your relationship with the Divine or guilt you into going to church after my death because “Mom would have wanted it this way.”
But I do want to emphasize that a relationship with God has really carried me through difficult times. Living in hope, purpose, and meaning, knowing I’m a beloved child of God has been the guiding force in my life. I have found belonging in a faith community, assurance that I’m part of something bigger than myself, and the call toward other people as my spiritual path. I do hope that you find the belonging I have found.
My love for you doesn’t end; it will always be in you. The time we have had together in this life is so special to me, and I’ve cherished every moment.
There will be other people who care for you and take care of you. Nothing will be the same as our relationship, but you will feel echoes of our relationship with other people. Lean into those feelings – it’s doesn’t diminish what we had. If one day you want to call someone else “Mom”, go right ahead!
How would I end a letter like this?
Oh, this is so hard. I’ll take a break and come back to this topic in a later post.
Be gentle with yourselves.
~What I’m reading~
Inciting Joy by Ross Gay
The Long Way Home by Louise Penny