Archive for August 23rd, 2018

The Final Race

Thursday, August 23rd, 2018

On Death and Dying.

This is unedited

Is dying the gateway to death, or death first and then dying the afterthought..sort of the sadness that is the residual dregs for those left behind to swallow by accident or leave at the bottom of the glass that is now quite half empty. I suppose that the answer is just as allusive as trying to answer what love is, since each case is a beautiful dance of it’s own orchestration, much like the intricate detail in a snowflake’s design…each so similar from a distance yet so unique and impossible to replicate in every measure.

Today was a day in a day, just like any other but so special and unique.
My son returned from a long stay in California to visit my grandma and be with my family. The reunion was joyous of course. While he was gone I came to the solid realization that my heart was not breaking that I was not there, rather, I was there through him, he was living moments for me in a way that I could truly taking in all the precious memories that I took in as a child in my grandma’s house in which so many things have remain unchanged. I know the smells of and serene feeling of sitting out on her deck as the fog rolls in off the bay and all the little details to be experienced in no other home than hers. Through Deed’s, my sweet son, I felt the joy of seeing (though his eyes) my cousin who I hardly know marry. I didn’t miss a thing, because Diederick was there. This is something that I needn’t tell anyone of, it’s mine just to wonder over. It’s a special power that I previously really didn’t realize. It’s a selfishness that truly is beautiful and mighty.

As I die one day, I will not fear that I will miss out. The reason for this is as clear as anything unexperienced could possibly be. As true as any promise that could come from a faultless friend. I live because I have had the opportunity to embrace the most powerful and meaningful essence that ever there was or ever there could be. It’s love. Life is in death. The clarity of this that life is a race, a race not for perfection, but one lived so true and so without opportunity to take back that it is a thrill even in the still moments. It’s an honor, and a privilege, but then too…

The final race is that unto death, because it was for that where there is final quiet.

I know where I want to be buried. Perhaps I’ve always known.

In the cemetery by the small church where I was married. I don’t care that my love might leave me before my life does. I want to be buried there because of the happiness that brought me there. True, pure and simple. What a beautiful day it was. The breeze was perfect, the sun was not blinding, nor the shadows too deep as often they can be. My inexpensive vail, my over sprayed too spirally hair looked lovely and felt incredibly timeless. We were a bubble of bliss: me and my dress, my flowers against the smile that motivates and radiates my world. His smile was of pride, in the best of ways, he admired me and I could see desired me in the beautiful way that two people can want each other when they are yet unfamiliar and have not yet knit the fabric that will either pull them apart or draw then together in the way that everyone wants but so few really obtain. I confess now, as I did then, that I picked that church for a handful of reasons, one of those was that I knew that I would not have many guests. Another was that it was a place that I had enjoyed as a child. Another that the simplicity of it was quite to my liking. It was a place that you would only find if lost or looking for it.

My metaphorical race in life is reaching an important benchmark: 13 years of marriage. The joys, the sarcasms, the comments that cut like little tiny slivers, the itty lies that don’t matter: it’s the love that makes the coffee in the morning, the bonds that make the days long and the years fleeting as we watch our children grow. It’s the lines in our faces, the jokes that we share. It’s the together forever, as long as forever lasts.

Every couple’s forever is it’s own length. At that I do, wherever it is said, is the beginning that covers up some other ending.

I want my death to be like my wedding. Something you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it. Meaningful to me, deep and true just like the day that I said I do.

For me it is is a divide, in perspective, the desire I mean…

As to whether I should like to be there for them, through every hardship and happiness in the flesh or if I’d like to go first so that I couldn’t feel the fear of losing this. While I write these lines though, I feel a peace, seeing through my words that either way I need not fear because they are an extension of me. I will feel through them, anything and everything that I am meant to feel.

We are born to die. Each his or her separate and special way designed my the master and maker. It is for Him to decide when and where each of us no longer will be in the game, where our race folds for the next journey to bloom and unfold. As it was he would formed and designed, it is for him to be present for the last breath.

1Co 9:26
I therefore so run, not as uncertainly; so fight I, not as one that beateth the air:
unchecked, But I keep under my body, and bring it into subjection: lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway.