waiting to live

a prayer, a blessing, and a poem walk into a bar

I was visiting a family yesterday whose matriarch is dying. Three of her grandchildren were present, along with her daughter. They described her as “the boss who is no longer able to boss us.” They were grieving and slightly anxious, but mostly full of tender, loving care. I listened as they attempted to put language to the experience of waiting for her to die—the strangeness of seeing her suspended in time, not quite alive but not yet dead, and the mind-boggling concept of both knowing someone is about to die but having no idea of the exact timing. I witnessed as they reached for answers (“how long do you think she has?”) and information (“why did [insert very specific situation] this happen?”), even as they were intellectually aware we would never be able to give them exactly what they craved.

I find myself wondering today—on this Holy Saturday, the day when God is dead and in the tomb and grief is all we know—if we had access to those kind of impossible answers, would we end up regretting getting what we asked for? If I could wave a magic wand and tell you the exact moment your loved one would die, I’m guessing you’d probably run in the opposite direction. The practice of waiting can be terrifying, but probably even more so when you’re anticipating a specific calendar date and time. This waiting I speak of, this particular family waiting in the not-exactly-knowing for their beloved to die, is a holy waiting, a kind of terror that begets reverence rather than fear.

In my post yesterday (the Triduum calls for back-to-back posting I suppose), I spoke of a terror inflicted by the state, and called for us to lament the death-dealing ways of empire and be moved by our grief toward action.

The terror I speak of today is one we see in Matthew 17, when the disciples fell to the ground after witnessing the transfiguration of Jesus. I reminded myself of the Greek word for “terrified” used in verse 6 (“they fell to the ground and were terrified”) and it comes from the root word φόβος (phobos), of which one meaning is “to revere.”

In her book An Altar in the World, Barbara Brown Taylor references classical philosopher Paul Woodruff as she attempts to define “reverence.” She says, inspired by Woodruff, “reverence is the virtue that keeps people from trying to act like gods.”

Reverence and humility are intimately related. Humble, from the Latin word “humus” meaning “ground,” is not making oneself lower than we actually are, but rather remembering that all of creation was formed from the same ground. I think of James Weldon Johnson’s distinctive image from his poem “The Creation:” the image of God scooping clay from the earth and molding it before breathing life into it. From dust we all came and to dust we will all return. Reverence looks into the face of another and, awe-struck, sees the image of God.

The kind of death I speak of today is the kind of death everyone is entitled to; a death without pain, hopefully later in life, surrounded by beloveds and a care team that gives dignity. By giving dignity I mean: care that recognizes we are all made in the image of the Divine and are to be treated as such. I see these kind of “good deaths” every day and it is my hope that one day we would live in a world where everyone has access to adequate and affirming healthcare, and where everyone is safe from bombs and bullets. The fact that we don’t all get a “good death” is not about luck, it’s about living in a world where systems are not built for everyone and where those in power, those false gods of empire, spread misinformation and fear-monger in order to hold onto control (the opposite of reverence and humility).

I realize that I am privileged to say what I’m about to say, but in the face of my own death and the deaths of those I love, I hope to one day feel reverence, not fear. I also hope that, one day, all of us can have the space and safety to practice this kind of spiritual waiting.

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The family yesterday mentioned that their grandmother always cooked a big feast on Easter. We pondered together if perhaps she was waiting for Easter to die. They laughed at the irony of someone waiting to die on the day of resurrection, but in my minds-eye, I imagined God winking.

As this family waits for her to die, as we wait for justice, as we wait, ultimately, for our own deaths and the deaths of those we love, I offer a prayer, a blessing, and a poem.

My prayer:

May the waiting be full of reverence, and free from fear. May all beings live in safety and good health. May we discover gifts in the grieving. May we, in our waiting to live and our waiting to die, be blessed among the not-exactly-knowing yet know that we are, despite what any false gods may say otherwise, holy and beloved. Amen.

A blessing, titled Therefore I Will Hope, by Jan Richardson, a artist, writer, and ordained minister:

I have no cause
to linger beside
this place of death,

no reason
to keep vigil
where life has left,

and yet I cannot go,
cannot bring myself
to cleave myself
from here,

can only pray
that this waiting
might yet be a blessing
and this grieving
yet a blessing
and this stone
yet a blessing
and this silence
yet a blessing
still.

A poem, Cat in an Empty Apartment, by Polish poet Wisława Szymborska:

Die—you can’t do that to a cat.
Since what can a cat do
in an empty apartment?
Climb the walls?
Rub up against the furniture?
Nothing seems different here
but nothing is the same.
Nothing’s been moved
but there’s more space.
And at nighttime no lamps are lit.

Footsteps on the staircase,
but they’re new ones.
The hand that puts fish on the saucer
has changed, too.

Something doesn’t start
at its usual time.
Something doesn’t happen
as it should.
Someone was always, always here,
then suddenly disappeared
and stubbornly stays disappeared.

Every closet’s been examined.
Every shelf has been explored.
Excavations under the carpet turned up nothing.
A commandment was even broken:
papers scattered everywhere.
What remains to be done.
Just sleep and wait.

Just wait till he turns up,
just let him show his face.
Will he ever get a lesson
on what not to do to a cat.
Sidle toward him
as if unwilling
and ever so slow
on visibly offended paws,
and no leaps or squeals at least to start.