This morning I stood in the pre-dawn cold with my back to the sunrise and watched the mountains cut a jagged edge into the night. Tracing them with a finger, I felt lonely and overcome with memories of last October 1st, when I watched the sun burst forth over an Omaha skyline from my stepfather's hospital room.
I had no idea that morning would be his last. He watched the sunrise and I sat with my back to it, chattering incessantly in ways that people chatter when they are too nervous or have too little faith to allow silence to take over. In the quiet hour while the sun climbed the sky, he sat and watched and I fretted, paced, ran errands, and just kept moving. To this day, I'm not sure what drove me that morning to yammer, except a deep fear of the downtime, the quiet time, the passive acceptance of what was to come.
Two months after his death, I would read the last book that David and I talked about: Kathleen Norris's The Cloister Walk. He was reading it in the months before he died. His bookmark still sits on page 272, the last hundred or so pages awaiting his keen eye and academic's pen. When I read the following passage, I reflected on my final moments alone with David, as we sat vigil that October morning:
Liturgical time is essentially poetic time, oriented toward process rather than productivity, willing to wait attentively in stillness rather than always pushing to 'get the job done'.
Our vigil wasn't liturgical, but those moments were imbued with an abiding faith on David's part that I struggled for. If I have any single regret of the last weeks and months in David's life, it is that in his final hours I was unable to sit, quietly, and listen. I regret not remembering that silence isn't always as important as noise: often it's more important. The ability to sit, to wait attentively in stillness, was probably the most important skill I learned that day.
On that day, I witnessed a man of deep and abiding faith embrace his end, his beginning, his everything. I will always remember it as one of the most stunningly painful moments of my life, but witnessing his faith, peace, and grace as those he'd touched in his life gathered around and supported us also made it among the most intensely beautiful experiences I have had. There, in our quietest of times, was the still small voice.
I had no idea that morning would be his last. He watched the sunrise and I sat with my back to it, chattering incessantly in ways that people chatter when they are too nervous or have too little faith to allow silence to take over. In the quiet hour while the sun climbed the sky, he sat and watched and I fretted, paced, ran errands, and just kept moving. To this day, I'm not sure what drove me that morning to yammer, except a deep fear of the downtime, the quiet time, the passive acceptance of what was to come.
Two months after his death, I would read the last book that David and I talked about: Kathleen Norris's The Cloister Walk. He was reading it in the months before he died. His bookmark still sits on page 272, the last hundred or so pages awaiting his keen eye and academic's pen. When I read the following passage, I reflected on my final moments alone with David, as we sat vigil that October morning:
Liturgical time is essentially poetic time, oriented toward process rather than productivity, willing to wait attentively in stillness rather than always pushing to 'get the job done'.
Our vigil wasn't liturgical, but those moments were imbued with an abiding faith on David's part that I struggled for. If I have any single regret of the last weeks and months in David's life, it is that in his final hours I was unable to sit, quietly, and listen. I regret not remembering that silence isn't always as important as noise: often it's more important. The ability to sit, to wait attentively in stillness, was probably the most important skill I learned that day.
On that day, I witnessed a man of deep and abiding faith embrace his end, his beginning, his everything. I will always remember it as one of the most stunningly painful moments of my life, but witnessing his faith, peace, and grace as those he'd touched in his life gathered around and supported us also made it among the most intensely beautiful experiences I have had. There, in our quietest of times, was the still small voice.
Reading your beautiful reflection, Monica, took me back to David's room. I saw his weary eyes struggling to greet me and the grief washed over me again. Thanks for that. Thanks for helping me mark this solemn anniversary the way I needed to.
ReplyDeleteTake a moment to listen to the silence that holds our David.
Mike
Thanks for your eloquent and inspirational reflections. We all stopped to consider the life we had with my brother on Oct 1. Many times I think of the strength and faith David displayed to me in his life and in his death. He is and always has been a constant motivation in my life and continue to draw courage daily from him.
ReplyDeleteI miss him greatly but for someone who proclaimed the Gospel all his life - he is where he always dreamed of.
Give the fam a hug!
Roland