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| My Dad and me |
Rev. Molly F. James
DFMS Noonday Prayer
September 15, 2021
Psalm 116:5-9; Sirach 38:9-17; 2 Corinthians 1:3-11; Matthew 24:1-8
May God’s Word be spoken. May God’s Word be heard. May that point us to the living Word who is Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
“My child, let your tears fall for the dead,
and as one in great pain begin the lament.
Lay out the body with due ceremony,
and do not neglect the burial.
Let your weeping be bitter and your wailing fervent;
make your mourning worthy of the departed,
for one day, or two, to avoid criticism;
then be comforted for your grief.”
Oof. This passage hit a little close to home this week. Saturday was the 20th anniversary of 9/11. As many of you know, my cousin Ben died when the towers fell. Like so many thousands of others, our family has a face, a name, a personal connection that gives that day an additional solemnity and heaviness. And then my dad had a consult with his palliative care physician. The physician has a wonderful bedside manner. He is kind and compassionate. He listens. He offers his wisdom and expertise. He laid out the various options and gently offered what he thought the best course would be. That course was clear to all of us, including my dad. It is time for him to enter hospice care. His limited ability to swallow has meant that his body is already showing the effects of not eating. It may be weeks or even months, but it will not be long. Whether he falls or has pneumonia or his body simply continues to give out, his medical team will now only provide comfort care.
My dad has had Parkinson’s for many years now. We knew this day was coming. We thought it might have come multiple times before when he has had a particularly bad fall or choking incident. There is, of course, lots of grief in this new reality for my family, as there has been all along the journey of this disease as we have noted each task or activity my dad could no longer do as he had. The reality of recent weeks has been such a sharp contrast from what was.
My dad was an avid athlete. He was one of those people who possessed true kinesthetic intelligence. He could do any sport reasonably well. He could play a round of golf or join a pick up soccer or hockey game and hold his own even if it had been years since the last time he played. He taught me to ski and play tennis with unending patience. When I was little he would even ski holding me up between his legs on the steep slopes that my older brother loved. Almost without fail, he would win our local tennis tournament every year, but our good friend who was in charge of the prizes always gave the trophy to my grandmother for teaching my dad how to play.
He has a ridiculously high metabolism - and combined with his love of being active that meant he could always eat well and lots of it. And he loves to eat. Always happy to finish anything we left behind. Overjoyed to sit with a plate of delicious food and people he loved. And he loves people. He is curious about the world. Always desiring to learn more. If he sat next to a stranger on an airplane, he would be able to tell us their life story when we picked him up from the airport. He took time to listen and to care. He always took the “Counselor” in “Attorney and Counselor at Law” part of his job very seriously.
While these days a smoothie or a milkshake are all he can manage for food, he has not lost that joie de vivre or ability to connect with people. He made fast friends in the assisted living community where he has lived this past year. In no time at all, he knew everyone’s name, and he is beloved there.
While our mourning is and will be deep, there is already comfort to be found in how my dad lived his life. His own father died of a brain tumor at the age of 38. This meant that my dad has spent his whole adult life knowing that life is fragile, precious, and uncertain. It was a meaningful truth he modeled for me even before my own life experience confirmed it. He has lived with grace and purpose. He has considered every day he got to have, especially the decades he got to live past age 38, as a gift. Always finding joy. Rejoicing and marveling in the splendor of creation. Reveling in the gift of time spent in conversation with those he loved. He has lived a full life and certainly shown us that what matters is the quality of our time, not the quantity.
And I have no doubt each of us have our own stories of what we are grieving this day, this week, this year. The realities and challenges of this past year and a half do mean that we have much to grieve. It is okay for our weeping to be bitter and our wailing fervent. We can and should make our mourning worthy of the departed. And given the magnitude of our individual and collective grief, it will likely be more than a day or two of mourning. That’s okay. Contrary to the verses I quoted above, I don’t think we will or should be criticized for how we live with our grief. It is also true that we can find comfort in the midst of our grief. In lives lived fully and well. In each other. In community. In the truths of our faith - the reality of resurrection. Easter is real. Hope is real. Love is ALWAYS stronger than death. Thanks be to God. AMEN.
