On death and living in the betwixt
Melancolie by Albert György located in Geneva, Switzerland.
The last few months have been filled with so much grief. It seems Brad and I, as well as many of our friends, have hit the age where we are both having loved ones pass, or preparing as they face extended illnesses. Many of us feel we are dwelling in that liminal space or the in-between space, also called the betwixt, where you wait with a loved one who has not yet passed but is about to transition.
I have wanted to write something deeply profound about grief, but my own experience has resulted in more questions than answers as I navigate the complexity of profound grief along with loved ones. Last week we placed my husband’s parents’ ashes in their final resting place. The memorial service was perfect. My sister-in-law had spent a great deal of time planning the event, and her deep caring showed through every detail from napkins in my mother-in-law’s signature pink to a video that had pictures from their youth through the time of their passing to pastel confetti and gorgeous flowers on the tables. The Monsignor who presided over the service said the most beautiful words, and all three siblings shared lovely thoughts about their parents. Most of all, I was grateful to celebrate the lives of two people I loved dearly with family I adore, and who we don’t see often enough.
When my dad died 17 years ago at the tender age of 60, my grief experience was profoundly different. Part of it is likely that it was my own father, and I had always been a daddy’s girl. Another aspect was also the unexpected nature of his passing whereas both of my husband’s parents were older and lingered long in the betwixt as they courageously faced extended illnesses. With my dad the grief was numbing at first, later profound and almost suffocating each time I reached habitually for the phone for our daily call only to realize he was not there. It was almost like losing him over again each time that happened. Over time it transitioned to something softer-almost like a warm blanket I wrapped around myself when I thought of him as I realized that grief, as the old adage says, truly is the price of love. I also came to the realization that for me, grief can be a celebration of a life well lived.
I could sit here and write my observations on grief and the betwixt, but I think they may feel trite as I wax philosophical on the role of faith, age of departing, length of illness, personality types, and such on how we approach grief. Instead, what I have realized is a profound respect for how people live their lives and the legacy they leave when they transition. In the last few months, I have seen so many examples of powerful legacy that challenge me to be more intentional about the legacy I will choose to leave:
My mother’s spicy Costa Rican best friend who died in March of COVID just shy of her 86th birthday who didn’t look or act a day over 50. She had 8 children, 29 grandchildren, and 25 great grandchildren (and counting). She lit up the room each time she walked in with deep faith, a warm, generous spirit, and joie de vivre. Her passing has left a vacuous hole both in her biological and church family;
The mother of a childhood friend gave all three of her children the gift of profound, unshakeable faith, an example of true love, and, may I add, a great sense of fashion before she passed. I think she taught every teenage girl in our church how to apply makeup correctly and the art of proper skincare;
Another friend, whose mother is dealing with an extended illness, celebrates how her mom taught her family to roll with the punches, never miss an opportunity to dance or laugh, and to rely on the powerful role of community, family in particular, to support each other through it all;
My dear friend whose father passed the Monday after Father’s Day, shared with me that her father’s motto was, “Nothing worthy has been written about cowards.” With this phrase, he taught his children and grandchildren, to live courageously, and always take the bet on themselves. He also taught this by example; and,
A handful of friends who have lost their life partners way too early who courageously learn to live without their loved one physically present, and, for some, bravely opening their hearts again to love knowing that is what their loved one would have wanted.
I sit in awe of all of these powerful examples of legacy, and the loved ones who shared their stories.
Yesterday, one of my childhood friends posted on Facebook this beautiful piece about how we live, and it so profoundly impacted me that I asked her if I could share it here:
I Want to Age Like Sea Glass
By Bernadette Noll
I want to age like sea glass. Smoothed by tides, not broken. I want the currents of life to toss me around, shake me up and leave me feeling washed clean. I want my hard edges to soften as the years pass—made not weak but supple. I want to ride the waves, go with the flow, feel the impact of the surging tides rolling in and out.
When I am thrown against the shore and caught between the rocks and a hard place, I want to rest there until I can find the strength to do what is next. Not stuck—just waiting, pondering, feeling what it feels like to pause. And when I am ready, I will catch a wave and let it carry me along to the next place that I am supposed to be.
I want to be picked up on occasion by an unsuspected soul and carried along—just for the connection, just for the sake of appreciation and wonder. And with each encounter, new possibilities of collaboration are presented, and new ideas are born.
I want to age like sea glass so that when people see the old woman I’ll become, they’ll embrace all that I am. They’ll marvel at my exquisite nature, hold me gently in their hands and be awed by my well-earned patina. Neither flashy nor dull, just a perfect luster. And they’ll wonder, if just for a second, what it is exactly I am made of and how I got to this very here and now. And we’ll both feel lucky to be in that perfectly right place at that profoundly right time.
I want to age like sea glass. I want to enjoy the journey and let my preciousness be, not in spite of the impacts of life, but because of them.
For all my friends dealing with grief, I don’t have the answers, but I do want you to know you are loved, and you are seen. You are in my thoughts and prayers.
