Last chapters

"You live on, not by virtue of the things you have amassed, or the work you have done, but through your spirit, in ways and means that you can neither control or foresee."
Mark Helprin A Soldier of the Great War



Sunset, Bandon, Oregon

Three of my close friends have lost their parents since the Fall. While the death in each of these instances was anticipated, the arrival of what we gently called 'the chariot', still left sorrow in its wake. Phrases such as 'it was time' and 'now they won't suffer' carry truth, but don't lessen the grief. And I have been humbled to see in the faces of the spouse left behind, or the children, the witness of it's power. We expect to bury our parents. It is the natural order of events. We don't I believe, ever quite expect to feel the reality of being an orphan or a widow or widower in the world when they are gone.

Living in the second half of life brings with it more funerals. My children have rolled their eyes at what I perhaps too lovingly refer to as 'my funeral folder'. I tell them one day they will be so glad I wrote down the music I would love to have, the poems, the directions for burial. I say they will appreciate that even more than the list of computer passwords. They just roll their eyes some more and talk about how it is really the 'control folder'. Who cares? I don't mind, because I know one day, it will be my last act of kindness. Going to funerals has taught me this.

In all these services, I have been moved by the struggle of the family to witness the life of their parent. Is it not astonishing to try and sum up the value of a person's existence in a few brief remarks? It cannot be done. What I have found is that it can create a wonderful shimmering moment in the service. The tenderness in the words, perhaps the funny bits, the poems, the tears, the reminiscing, pay homage in a very real way. They are among us again for a moment in the stories. Of course it isn't everything. But it is a powerful testimony to the true legacy of our lives. Certainly we exist because of them, but just as significantly, no matter what kind of parent they were able to be, who we become is in part a result of the life they led. It is the real inheritance we gather up at the grave.

All three of these parents were gentle and loving people. Can there be a more beautiful tribute than that? The last one, just this week, was for the Dad of a childhood friend. The final hymn was one of his favorites: "His Eye is on the Sparrow". As we slowly filed out and lined up for the procession I looked out the car window. There in the trees of the church yard, were scores of robins singing and flying in the bright winter air. I smiled and smiled. Robins are the symbol of love and compassion.