Thinking about yet another death...

Last night, as we drove in the darkness on our way home from Maryland, in the silence I found I was thinking about what I might say at my father's funeral.  At least for this moment, I sense that I want to speak when that time comes - and lead some of the prayers, too - even though this was impossible for me after my mother and sister died. Dianne and I were able to sing Mary Chapin Carpenter's "Jubilee" as a prayer for my mother. 

Over time I had learned to see that in spite of the violence, shame and addictions, she did the best she could with her wounds and scars and fears.  It was almost like the singer was sharing her name when she wrote:  "And I can tell by the way you're listening that you're still expecting to hear, your name being called like a summons to all who have failed to account for their doubts and their fears. They can't add up to much without you, so if it were just up to me: I'd take hold of your hand, saying come hear the band, play your song at the jubilee."
 
I was unable to find anything sacred, graceful or true to say at Beth's passing so I simply surrendered to the silence that had lived at the heart of our connection for over a decade. "Be still and know that I am God" I prayed to myself.  After all, "for everything there is a season," as they read during the service, "and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance... a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing... a time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace." I despise pious platitudes at these things - clergy belch them out all the time when we should mostly shut up - so it was time to practice what I preach.

But I have been much closer and more entangled with my father - I care his name and so much more - and after sitting in his parlor yesterday morning, talking about how he hopes to care for himself in relative isolation, I discovered I was thinking about his death.  Not in a morbid or fatalistic way, but rather in ways that might point to God's grace active in the midst of his wise, sometimes mean-spirited, tender, confused, addicted and loving life. So I'm going to start making notes now knowing that that time will come before any of us is really prepared.

Already I know two truths - there will be more.  One has to do with my father.  I want to celebrate the complexity of his life without sentimentality.  I want to honor his questioning faith, lift up his integrity in business, acknowledge his sins and respect his sacrifices as a man, husband and patriarch all from within soul of grace.  No bullshit "you have not died" poems allowed - no sloppy agape theology - and no sappy hymns or music either.  My father likes to sing hymns like the Welshmen - big and bold with full harmonies and rich melodies.  He likes Johnny Cash and Tom Jones.  In his day, he jitter-bugged with my momma and listened to the early electric blues in the dives of Pittsburgh.  A poem by Robert Bly puts it like this:

Your head is still
Restless, rolling
East and west -
That body in you
Insisting on living
Is the old hawk
For whom the world
Darkens. If I
Am not with you
When you die,
That would be grievous
But just. That part
Of you cleaned
My bones more
Than once. But I
Will meet you
In the young hawk
Whom I see
Inside both
You and me.
He has guided
You into the wold -
And will guide
You now to
The Lord of Night,
Who will give
You the tenderness
You wanted here.

The other has to do with me.  As the eldest son, I've warred with my father - physically, emotionally and intellectually - and made peace.  I have despaired of many of his choices in life and have come to accept and sometimes respect some of them, too.  We have grown old together.  He has never been able to speak his feelings - like most men of his generation - and I inherited this curse.  I've been doing battle with this dragon for 60 years and know it will continue well past his grave.  And like many other warriors, I've learned about this man in our combat and come to love him dearly.

We will always be in competition of one type or another - and while part of me hates this habit - another part whispers, "Shut up.  This is how it is and was and always will be, world without end. Amen."  Again brother Bly cuts to the chase for me.

The Prodigal Son is kneeling in the husks.
My friend, the steering column in his chest,
Cried: "Don't let me die, Doctor!"
The swine go on feeding in the sunlight.

When he folds his hands, his knees
On corncobs, he sees the smoke of ships
Floating off the isles of Tyre and Sidon,
And father beyond father beyond father.

An old man once, being dragged across
The floor by his shouting son, cried:
"Don't drag me any farther than that crack on the
   floor -
I only dragged my father that far!"

So this dragging of father and son goes on
Century after century after century.
There are brothers, some favorites, some
Not. Neither brother gets what he wants.

My father is seventy-five years old.
Looking at his face, I look into water.
How difficult it is! Under the water
There's a door that the pigs have gone through.

Funny what death unlocks within, yes.  I will speak with my father on the phone this Sunday. Mostly we'll talk about his health and strength - a little bit about the weather - and some about the election on Tuesday.  We won't talk about how he is feeling now that his wife and two daughters have died before their time.  We won't talk about how he feels being alone and increasingly frail.  I'll ask if he is eating - and still able to drive with care - and he will assure me that everything is just fine.  And then he'll quickly bring the call to a close, tell me he loves me and will be gone.  For another week.  "Century after century after century this dragging of father and son goes on..." and this is how it shall be, world without end. Amen.