My brother, David, and I piled into my little Honda yesterday. David’s long legs were nearly to his chin. I don’t remember when he and I ever took a trip together. But yesterday, we decided to go to Carolina and visit our aunt. She is the last family member on my father’s side, and she is dying of throat cancer.
David and I were both born in North Carolina, as were both of our parents. We know the route well. 81 South is a scenically dry drive. There is not much to look at and always there is a starkness in what we pass mile after mile. Occasionally, we spot hawks, and the bodies of water along the way do interrupt the ongoing run of pine trees. But there has always been for me a pulling back of my own edges, as I return to this place that is known and foreign all at the same time. Always, there is something sad in my body, something that feels loss and lost. This land is heritage. This is the land of birth, but this also is the land of letting go. Even as a child coming to visit my grandparents, I knew that our time together would be sweet, but it would always be followed with a good-bye. And this day, as we drive through pouring rain, those feelings of bitter sweetness and melancholy are strong.
We pass our time with good conversation, a bit of music, and spaces of quiet. We are both pondering what it will be like to sit with Anne Marie, to witness this part of life that is unfamiliar and frightening. How can we offer blessing today? How can we ease her struggle? How can we bear to hold her close while we say good-bye?
We are thankful as we arrive that this place of hospice care is lovely. It is bright and clean and home-like. The soft yellow walls, the cheery fresh flowers, the quiet grace that hangs in the air like a spring fragrance offer ease and calm as we find our way toward Anne Marie’s room. As we enter, we find a woman playing her guitar and singing as Anne Marie taps her feet in rhythm beneath the blankets of her bed. And as she realizes we are there, there are tears and joy.
At first, I can feel the pressure of conversation. What do we say or ask? How do we figure out her needs apart from our own? How do we not overtax her voice and energy? And so, we naturally let catching up blaze the trail. We share the news from each family member. We speak of our own journeys and joys and struggles. We all acknowledge the bird that sings so sweetly outside the window. Its song is strong and clear… a calling to us to stay engaged with all that pulses with life and blessing. We get Anne Marie ice water. We clean her glasses. We put fresh water in her flowers. We yearn to do or say something that will capture her struggle and free her from burden. We sit with her as she sleeps. Each time she drops off, I pray. I set my eyes on her face or her hands or her throat, and I pray. And I sing to her. And then I pray some more. David sits quietly. He seems to be waiting, to be finding his own way with this visit. And finally, after a time, he begins. He recounts stories of our childhood with those whom Anne Marie has loved. He causes her to laugh. Her eyes brighten. His stories enliven her. And as I witness this, I see that he, too, is enlivened and that this connection between them is God’s hand at work.
He speaks what he most yearns to say from his heart, he kisses her good-bye and leaves me to my own space with Anne Marie. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to, but in that moment the tears could not be contained. This woman is so precious to me. She is steadfast in my life. She speaks, and I hear God speaking through her. She always helps me to feel the love when I seem lost to it. I do not know if I will see her again in this life. I do not know if this is the last time I will hold her hand, but I am keenly aware that she is cocooning herself for transformation. She is in the midst of letting go and allowing her body to embrace the final stages of living on this earth. Our cheeks press each other’s tears together as she tells me that she will be okay. We both know the truth of this. We both trust the truth of this. And yet I know how much I will miss her, and as I tell her this, she says, “Oh, but I’ll be here. Just listen to the birdsongs. Look at the sky. Oh, and the clouds. I’ve always loved the clouds. You just look at the clouds. I’ll be here, you’ll see.”
The trip home was long, but David and I affirmed in our conversations all that comes from a visit like this. Life is precious. Take nothing for granted. Do your soul work now. Don’t wait to tell people how much they mean to you. Step up for those in need. Be true to whom you are called to be and if you don’t yet know what that means… keep searching. Remember your roots and honor what has grown from them. Be thankful. And love… love from the deepest, truest depth of your being.
Anne Marie also mentioned that the Tar Heels are playing Duke on Saturday, and she hopes to watch the game. And I don’t know anything about basketball, but I have a strong feeling that those Tar Heels are really going to show their stuff.
Blessed be this ordinary life.
Blessed be the ties that bind.
David and I were both born in North Carolina, as were both of our parents. We know the route well. 81 South is a scenically dry drive. There is not much to look at and always there is a starkness in what we pass mile after mile. Occasionally, we spot hawks, and the bodies of water along the way do interrupt the ongoing run of pine trees. But there has always been for me a pulling back of my own edges, as I return to this place that is known and foreign all at the same time. Always, there is something sad in my body, something that feels loss and lost. This land is heritage. This is the land of birth, but this also is the land of letting go. Even as a child coming to visit my grandparents, I knew that our time together would be sweet, but it would always be followed with a good-bye. And this day, as we drive through pouring rain, those feelings of bitter sweetness and melancholy are strong.
We pass our time with good conversation, a bit of music, and spaces of quiet. We are both pondering what it will be like to sit with Anne Marie, to witness this part of life that is unfamiliar and frightening. How can we offer blessing today? How can we ease her struggle? How can we bear to hold her close while we say good-bye?
We are thankful as we arrive that this place of hospice care is lovely. It is bright and clean and home-like. The soft yellow walls, the cheery fresh flowers, the quiet grace that hangs in the air like a spring fragrance offer ease and calm as we find our way toward Anne Marie’s room. As we enter, we find a woman playing her guitar and singing as Anne Marie taps her feet in rhythm beneath the blankets of her bed. And as she realizes we are there, there are tears and joy.
At first, I can feel the pressure of conversation. What do we say or ask? How do we figure out her needs apart from our own? How do we not overtax her voice and energy? And so, we naturally let catching up blaze the trail. We share the news from each family member. We speak of our own journeys and joys and struggles. We all acknowledge the bird that sings so sweetly outside the window. Its song is strong and clear… a calling to us to stay engaged with all that pulses with life and blessing. We get Anne Marie ice water. We clean her glasses. We put fresh water in her flowers. We yearn to do or say something that will capture her struggle and free her from burden. We sit with her as she sleeps. Each time she drops off, I pray. I set my eyes on her face or her hands or her throat, and I pray. And I sing to her. And then I pray some more. David sits quietly. He seems to be waiting, to be finding his own way with this visit. And finally, after a time, he begins. He recounts stories of our childhood with those whom Anne Marie has loved. He causes her to laugh. Her eyes brighten. His stories enliven her. And as I witness this, I see that he, too, is enlivened and that this connection between them is God’s hand at work.
He speaks what he most yearns to say from his heart, he kisses her good-bye and leaves me to my own space with Anne Marie. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to, but in that moment the tears could not be contained. This woman is so precious to me. She is steadfast in my life. She speaks, and I hear God speaking through her. She always helps me to feel the love when I seem lost to it. I do not know if I will see her again in this life. I do not know if this is the last time I will hold her hand, but I am keenly aware that she is cocooning herself for transformation. She is in the midst of letting go and allowing her body to embrace the final stages of living on this earth. Our cheeks press each other’s tears together as she tells me that she will be okay. We both know the truth of this. We both trust the truth of this. And yet I know how much I will miss her, and as I tell her this, she says, “Oh, but I’ll be here. Just listen to the birdsongs. Look at the sky. Oh, and the clouds. I’ve always loved the clouds. You just look at the clouds. I’ll be here, you’ll see.”
The trip home was long, but David and I affirmed in our conversations all that comes from a visit like this. Life is precious. Take nothing for granted. Do your soul work now. Don’t wait to tell people how much they mean to you. Step up for those in need. Be true to whom you are called to be and if you don’t yet know what that means… keep searching. Remember your roots and honor what has grown from them. Be thankful. And love… love from the deepest, truest depth of your being.
Anne Marie also mentioned that the Tar Heels are playing Duke on Saturday, and she hopes to watch the game. And I don’t know anything about basketball, but I have a strong feeling that those Tar Heels are really going to show their stuff.
Blessed be this ordinary life.
Blessed be the ties that bind.
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