I've been thinking quite a bit about death lately. Morbid, I know. But there it is.
A very dear friend of mine died a couple of months ago, leaving behind her husband, their 5-year-old son and 10-year-old daughter.
After the graveside service, a few of us stayed until most everyone but the immediate family was gone. Before the casket was lowered, the 5-year-old asked, matter-of-factly, if he could get in there with his mom. When they told him he couldn't, he went back to playing with his friends, running around headstones. His sister on the other hand, looked paralyzed, tearless eyes blazing. When they began to lower the coffin into the ground, no one spoke or moved. To be frank, the knowledge that my friend was remade in Heaven was of little comfort in those endless minutes.
Since then I've been thinking a good bit about the nature of memory. I wonder how much the 5-year-old will recall of his mother. I have memories dating back to when I was two and three, but they're like the flickering reels of film used in old-timey cameras. And how many of the fine details, the little things do any of us remember about even the most important loved ones lost to us?
I think about this when I've been separated for a lengthy period of time from someone dear to me. I find myself registering, almost subconsciously, how she purses her mouth this way or curls forward when she laughs, or how he habitually rubs a leg or pushes back his hair. I realize then I had forgotten those idiosyncrasies. Seeing them again is like having a sepia-toned photograph bloom into color: the image hadn't been lost, but its vibrancy had faded.
I especially think about this when I consider the death of Robert, the brother of my heart. He died of cancer seven years ago, and I still chafe at the reality of my children never knowing him. He is to them little more than that man in the photo with Momma when she was young. I kept a journal the last few months of his life. Recently, I read an entry following one of our final conversations. I had forgotten the exchange completely. Reading it again made me gasp at how I could have lost its memory.
Speaking on the phone with Erin just before attending this recent funeral, I rhetorically asked her (feeling ridiculously sorry for myself) how many more funerals of close friends I would be attending in my life. She answered simply, "A lot more."
It was like a needed slap in the face, reminding me that death is irrevocably part of life. It's just part of the deal, and we're not excused from it at any age or under any particular circumstances.
What I've tried to take from all this is the constant awareness that I'm not promised tomorrow with my children, my husband or anyone else. How will my words and actions stack up if today is my last day? Will I have been unnecessarily selfish or cross? Or will I have reacted to the challenges of my day with love and treated my husband as my best friend?
With this in mind, I realize that while my friend's beloved son may not carry a great deal of specific memories of her into his adulthood, he and his sister are permanently imprinted by her goodness, her laughter, her love of them.
Such things outlast memories.
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10 comments:
Well, I'm crying.
Beautiful post. Just beautiful.
Wow, Toni. I haven't read anything that moved me this much in a long time This made me realize I need to hold my friends closer and cherish my family every moment of every day. I needed this gentle reminder. Thank you.
Wonderful post. Interestingly, I sat here tonight talking to my husband, and he rubbed above his mouth in a certain way he has; I found myself thinking, will I always remember that? That he does that? I may forget that one motion, but heartwarming to be reminded he and I will remember about each other what really matters. You are always a good read. I'm sending others here tomorrow. Not that I have a lot to send, but you know what I mean. Good reading!
Toni, I've lost my Mom and Dad, a brother in law, and lots of other family and close friends, and it never gets any easier to give them up. When we're younger, we tend to think we'll live forever, but as we age the ugly truth becomes more real to us with each loved one death takes from us. Our own mortality becomes more real to us, too.
We should all live as if today is our last day on this earth with our loved ones, because it very well could be.
This post is so touching, Toni. Thank you for sharing it with us. :-)
I was reading your entry while ponderng the purchase of something utterly frivolous and unnecessary when slapped in the face by your soul piercing blog. You certainly have a way with words.
Toni, we have had a really hard couple of days for reasons I will probably not be writing about for a long time. That said, your post today reminded me that I am not the only one who suffers, and today, that is comforting. Thanks.
I'm here by way of Barb. Beautiful post indeed. So sorry for your loss.
That was very heartfelt. You are a great writer. I have not really lost any close friends, but I know the time will come and I will want to saver every memory I have had with them. The sad thing is that I have a REALLY bad memory, so I think that your journal idea is AWESOME. I think I will make one about my kids too. I want to remember EVERYTHING about them, and them, me. Thank you for the inspiring words.
I came from your comment on Diane's blog. This post really hits home with me as I lost my wife of over 37 years last summer. She was only 62, too young to be dieing, but it happened. Since then family & friends have been very helpful in keeping me together. Treasure them.
Another thing I have run into is a desire to digitize snapshots from over the years. I sure wish we had done a better job of writing dates & other info on them! And, as you said in your last post about you being behind the camera in most photos, my Annie isn't in as many of them as I wish she had been because she took most of them. Make sure someone gets photos of the photographer, too. I would suggest you do a video tape (DVD) with parents, asking about their lives as they grew up. Some time it will be too late.
Man. Nail on the head.
I lost my dad lost Aug 22. I was daddy's girl, the princess. When he was diagnosed with cancer, we immediately put out house on the market nad moved home. 2 weeks - that was all it took to be on the doorstep. We spent 4 months before he went Home. The best four months.
The kids, 12 and 13, don't remember alot, but they remember those 4 months. And we all treasure it more than life.
So yes, we are imprinted and remember all that they were, and in legacy strive to walk down the road they put us on with grace.
God pour out his mercy in your grief. We stand alongside.
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