For the past week or so, a particular song has been continually going through my head. When it is not going through my head, I am singing it out loud. It's an old American song, re-popularized by Blood, Sweat and Tears.
I'm not scared of dying
and I don't really care
If it's peace you find in dying, well then
let that time be near.
At 8:14 this morning, and again at 9:22, I received phone calls listed as coming from Malaysia. I missed the first call because I was in the shower. The second time around, I picked it up, anticipating an advertisement or a wrong number. I was surprised to hear a familiar voice. It was my son's stepfather. He was calling from Portland, Oregon.
I wonder now if things could be different if I just hadn't picked up the call. Or if I had missed the second as I had missed the first. Is it really true that nothing happens unless observed?
My son is dead.
Would that I myself had died before answering that call.
For the past week, I have spoken of dying. I have written of it in my blog. I have worried unreasonably over what would become of my corpse, who would find me, who would claim me.
During this same period of time, my son lay dying in his little room in Portland, alone, unattended, undiscovered.
One night, some days ago, a black cloud, a cape of smoke without substance or scent overshadowed the entryway to my apartment. It glided down from the tops of the palm trees on the veranda and then paused in a predatory attitude before rising away to the roof and beyond.
I did not understand at the time what it was.
There are a million things to say. There is a lifetime of things to say. There is the all-consuming, never dying love of my own young days--my son, my boy, my friend, my flesh. The little boy who once wrote, My dad is the bes dad in the hol wid wurl.
The last time I heard his voice was on Christmas. We always spoke by phone on Christmas, and kept in touch otherwise by email. I remember speaking to him for an unusually long time this year, always thinking of one more thing to say. He seemed happier than usual, engaging in a more natural way. Communicating. And I remember that he spoke of the possibility of death at that time. He said that he was not afraid, he was ready. He said that he looked forward to being with the Lord.
You are with the Lord now, Holden. Mercy is perfected.
I love you. I miss you. My God, I miss you. I always have, I always will, until mercy is perfected in me as well.
I'm not scared of dying
and I don't really care
If it's peace you find in dying, well then
let that time be near.
At 8:14 this morning, and again at 9:22, I received phone calls listed as coming from Malaysia. I missed the first call because I was in the shower. The second time around, I picked it up, anticipating an advertisement or a wrong number. I was surprised to hear a familiar voice. It was my son's stepfather. He was calling from Portland, Oregon.
I wonder now if things could be different if I just hadn't picked up the call. Or if I had missed the second as I had missed the first. Is it really true that nothing happens unless observed?
My son is dead.
Would that I myself had died before answering that call.
For the past week, I have spoken of dying. I have written of it in my blog. I have worried unreasonably over what would become of my corpse, who would find me, who would claim me.
During this same period of time, my son lay dying in his little room in Portland, alone, unattended, undiscovered.
One night, some days ago, a black cloud, a cape of smoke without substance or scent overshadowed the entryway to my apartment. It glided down from the tops of the palm trees on the veranda and then paused in a predatory attitude before rising away to the roof and beyond.
I did not understand at the time what it was.
There are a million things to say. There is a lifetime of things to say. There is the all-consuming, never dying love of my own young days--my son, my boy, my friend, my flesh. The little boy who once wrote, My dad is the bes dad in the hol wid wurl.
The last time I heard his voice was on Christmas. We always spoke by phone on Christmas, and kept in touch otherwise by email. I remember speaking to him for an unusually long time this year, always thinking of one more thing to say. He seemed happier than usual, engaging in a more natural way. Communicating. And I remember that he spoke of the possibility of death at that time. He said that he was not afraid, he was ready. He said that he looked forward to being with the Lord.
You are with the Lord now, Holden. Mercy is perfected.
I love you. I miss you. My God, I miss you. I always have, I always will, until mercy is perfected in me as well.
4 comments:
Richard, I was diagnosed with incurable cancer with all of the chemo and radiation. Then I got a deadly virus that nearly killed me, and I was in ICU. Then my husband had a massive stroke, can’t speak and paralyzed on one side, and I am his caregiver. Then I lost a beloved family member to suicide. I then lost my son in law. Next, I lost my job, so now I am hanging on. I know your despair. I am sometimes ashamed, because people must ask themselves how can she be a Christian and where is her God. I am here because of God. You will make it through your hardships and can and will be blessed. Suffering is hard, but reach for your strength in God. You have Him. I am praying for you. You are never alone. I am incredibly sorry for your loss.
I am so sorry for your loss. I hope you find peace.
Suz
Anon--Thank you so much for your kind words. My God, one feels a bit like Job sometimes, right? But of course the point of Job, the good news, is in the end, not the beginning. My son was ill for many years and often unhappy, so while I will miss his voice and his friendship in my own life, I know that he must be blissful now with the Lord. God bless you, and know that I will be praying for you as well.
Words often feel inadequate at times of loss, but without words, how would you know that others actually care? My heart breaks for the passing of your son, yet rejoices that he was ready to find his peace with the Lord. What a blessing and reassurance that is!
This truly has been a season of change and challenges for you, as it has been in my life as well.
I am praying for you. For a speedy & much needed healing of your infection, for peace in times of decisions, and for friendships & fellowship to fill your days.
Many blessings.
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