A movie to watch

Posted by Terry McNichols

My husband and I watched a very touching movie the other night, called Departures.  It is a movie in Japanese, with English subtitles.  It won the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film in 2009.  It is a poignant story about a young man who finds his calling as a nakanshi, or one who prepares the dead for burial.   It is a beautiful story of respect for the dying and the process of burial, subtitled "the gift of lasting memories." 


I was perhaps especially moved, having just witnessed the rituals around the burial I described in Monday's post. And how difficult it must be for the people of Haiti to have lost loved ones with no possibility of "the gift of lasting memories."  

Peaceful Winds

A guest post by Jim Schmotzer

We spent summers at Peaceful Winds in Florida. One morning, as we left for miniature golf, I asked, “Grandpa, why’s the flag only halfway up that pole?”

“It’s out of respect. When someone dies, we lower it for a day.”

“But, Grandpa, it’s always like that.”

He paused, looking past me. “Older people here… that’s the way it goes.”

Two days later, the flag was flying high. A party broke out at the club house, a veritable retiree’s frenzy.

Before sunset, there were 15 calls to 911. Three deaths. The flag dropped again. As far as I know it stayed there.

(Photo by catd_mitchell, shared via Flickr)

Guest Post - Jim Schmotzer

We have decided to continue with guest posts on Wednesdays from Jim Schmotzer for the month of August. He posts regularly at The Faithful Skeptic and has agreed to let us use some of his poems that relate to aging. We hope you will enjoy his poetry as much as we have.

August 1, 2007
ten years gone
a decade

we were over the mountains at a hotel
waiting to get the kids from camp
I was planning to visit the next week
got the call
you were gone

all the things you don't know

within days, OK a few months
I had a new job and car
Michael moved out
we would have talked, you would have cared

I can't believe you don't know

I imagine you in your family room
sitting in your chair
(it's upstairs in our guest room)
your television and sound system
(big screens and theater sound are the rage,
I know you'd love it)
you'd put in some action movie
tell me "listen to this"
sound would overwhelm the room
it would be impressive

i want to hear you rant about the government
and the unending stupidity of people

I want to play Upwords
just the two of us
you keeping score
for little reason
because you would win
again

I CAN ONLY IMAGINE....

Posted by Leona Bergstrom

I do not know exactly what takes place when someone dies. I do know the moments surrounding a last breath are profoundly sacred.

A couple of weeks ago I flew to Denver to be near my Aunt Velma who was in hospice care. I wanted to say good bye but I wasn’t sure I would make it there before she died. Rather than attend church on Sunday morning, I opted for the earliest flight out. My sister and I arrived before noon and were warmly and emotionally greeted by my cousin, Aunt Velma’s only son. “She waited for you,” he said as he embraced me. I didn’t understand at the time, but later learned that my aunt had been near death when someone told her I was coming to be with her. She had mysteriously “rallied,” and although she was apparently not conscious, she relaxed and continued steady, albeit shallow, breathing.

I entered her room and knelt at her side. The moments that followed will forever change my life. I spoke into her ear, which physically was nearly deaf but spiritually quite attuned to what I had to tell her. I was able to thank her for the abundant love she had shown me all of my life. I reminded her of precious secrets we had shared. I told her I loved her and I would miss her presence in my life. She took her last breath just after 2 pm. Her life on earth was completed. My family had shared memories around her bedside. We had laughed and cried. She knew we loved her. She knew all of us were there.

And then somehow true transformation took place. Her worn little body stayed behind, but her spunky, God-loving spirit went home.

Think of stepping on shore
And finding it Heaven!
Of taking hold of a hand
And finding it God's Hand!
Of breathing a new air
And finding it celestial air!
Of feeling invigorated
And finding it immortality!
Of passing from storm and tempest
To an unbroken calm;
Of waking up and finding
Yourself HOME!
---Robert E. Selle

(Photo by young_einstein, shared via Flickr)
See also our prior post on a way of looking at death here.

Caregiving - The Final Stage

Posted by Leona Bergstrom

Eventually a loved one, for whom you have provided care, dies. It always comes as a shock to the system, no matter how prepared you thought you were. Death rips our soul, our hearts and our lives.

I dare say it also changes everything for a caregiver. He or she must learn to grieve and accept loss. He must honor memories, plan a funeral, share his loved one’s life with others. And then, a caregiver has to figure out what to do with this huge void!

I had a friend whose mother lived for nearly 20 years in a local nursing home. My friend visited nearly every day and in the course of those visits became very close to other residents. She also learned to work with the staff and could often be found singing or reading to others. When her mom died, she not only missed her -- she missed the relationships at the nursing home! She experienced loss upon loss.

It is important to honor, to grieve, and to share the loss. It’s also important to think of what life after caregiving might be like. Dare you dream? Dare you explore new opportunities? Where do you live? I think this is a very sensitive time for families. Adult children and grandchildren need to be present as never before. For me it was sometimes hard to visit my mom after my dad died. Not because I didn’t want to be with her – but because I didn’t know how to be without him.

As I close this little exhortation about caregiving, may I say that family caregivers are my heroes! I honor you, respect you and encourage you to see that this service you offer your loved one is indeed a ministry. God has placed this opportunity at this time so that you might love as He loves – and WITH his love. Grace, peace and strength are yours because Jesus said, “Lo, I am with you always….”!

For more resources on caregiving go to:
www.caregiving.com (Denise B. identifies the stages of caregiving and gives more advice on what to do) www.nfcacares.org, the National Family Caregivers Association and
www.caregiving.org, the Family Caregiver Alliance
(Photo by lambertwm, shared via Flickr)

Choose life

Posted by Terry McNichols

My pastor yesterday used a story in his sermon that I had heard years ago and forgotten about. It is a story that can be applied to our fears of letting go, our fears of change, or the option to choose life. But Henri Nouwen, the author of the story, was talking about a new way to look at death -- a way that is most comforting to me. We do not know the whole story. But Christ is Risen! He is Risen indeed! I hope your Easter was joyful in that knowledge! What follows is the story of a set of twins, conversing in the womb:

The sister said to the brother "I believe there is life after birth."

Her brother protested vehemently, "No, no. This is all there is. This is a dark and cosy place, and we have nothing else to do but to cling to the cord that feeds us."

The sister insisted, "there must be something more than this dark place. There must be something else, a place with light where there is freedom to move."

Still she could not convince her twin brother.

After some silence, the sister said hesitantly, "I have something else to say, and I’m afraid you won’t believe that, either, but I think there is a mother."

Her brother became furious. "A mother!" he shouted. "What are you talking about? I have never seen a mother, and neither have you. Who put that idea in your head? As I told you, this place is all we have. Why do you always want more? This is not such a bad place, after all. We have all we need, so let’s be content."

The sister was quite overwhelmed by her brother’s response and for a while didn’t say anything more. But she couldn’t let go of her thoughts, and since she had only her twin brother to speak to, she finally said, "Don’t you feel these squeezes once in awhile? They’re quite unpleasant and quite painful."

"Yes," he answered. "What’s special about that?"

"Well," the sister said, "I think that these squeezes are there to get us ready for another place, much more beautiful than this, where we will see our mother face-to-face. Don’t you think that’s exciting?"

Our Greatest Gift, Henri Nouwen, Harper, 1994, pages 19-20

Life is Fragile

Posted by Leona Bergstrom

Both Terry and I are struggling with the emotions and the gut-wrenching questions that come with facing death – especially the loss of young people. (See Terry’s post about Ben.)

Friends of mine recently lost their 27-year-old son after a three-year battle with cancer. The depth of their loss overwhelms me. I attended the memorial service and immediately came home and called my own son -- just to hear his voice (even if it was a voicemail greeting).

I was reminded of a song I recently heard Dave Irish sing in concert entitled Life is Fragile. Dealing with his own personal loss of a dear friend, Dave penned words that say it all. “On the canvas of an artist there’s an intricate design - depth of vision filled with color on display. Then a senseless hand of cruelty caused an angry crooked line, and the beauty is forever swept away.” His conclusion is that life is fragile – and that those we hold dear can leave us in a moment.

Predictably, the song encourages us to do what seems impossible: Live life to the fullest, count the stars, embrace life.

Lord, teach us to make the days count....... (Psalm 90).
(Photo by e3000, shared via Flickr).

The death of a child

Posted by Terry McNichols

As I try to make sense of the seemingly senseless death of a 3-1/2-year-old boy to the scourge of cancer, I am buoyed up by the saints all around me who join the struggle and come up with beautiful ways to explain the seeming silence of God at such a time. Here is something I have taken from the blog of another fellow wanderer, who says it well:

For me, the intense suffering of a small child is a crossroad event, especially when it leads to death. One road coming through the intersection is actually a superhighway. It is characterized by an agony that articulates the very real, very honest and very tempting cry, "Where were You?"

The other "road," actually little more than a climber's trail, dangerous and meandering, staying close to the contours of the way things truly are, is definitely the way less traveled. This path is characterized by an agony that articulates a different cry. Something David Hart wrote in the Wall Street Journal a few days before Ben was born, in response to the tsunami that killed hundreds of thousands:

"For while Christ takes the suffering of His creatures up into His own, it is not because He or they had need of suffering, but because He would not abandon His creatures to the grave. . . As for comfort, when we seek it, I can imagine none greater than the happy knowledge that when I see the death of a child I do not see the face of God, but the face of His enemy."

Ben Towne

Posted by Terry McNichols

There are no words as I stand in vigil with so great a cloud of witnesses over the deepening pain of the Ben Towne family. The hope-filled post of October 20th documented 3-year-old Ben's journey of six rounds of chemotherapy, surgery to remove a tumor, stem cell transplant, twelve sessions of radiation, twelve antibody infusions, and six courses of oral meds since August 17, 2007. We all collectively held our breaths in prayer for a complete remission. Yet it appears this is not to be.

I have no answers. Only pain for this young family that has been through so much and yet still has more pain to come. In trying to come to terms with my own grief, I come again to the powerful words of Brahms Requiem, Movement 3, English translation, from Psalms 39:4:

Lord, make me to know mine end, and the measure of my days, what it is: that I may know how frail I am. Behold, thou hast made my days as an hand breadth; and mine age is as nothing before thee. Surely every man walks in a vain show: surely they are disquieted in vain: he heaps up riches, and knows not who shall gather them. And now, Lord, what wait I for? My hope is in thee. The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God and there shall no torment touch them.

Rerun Tuesdays

Posted by Leona Bergstrom


A friend died today.

It’s all too common of an occurrence lately it seems.

My friend: once vibrant, once wild with dreams and ideas--suddenly taken out by the swift blow from an enemy too strong to stand against any longer.

I’m sad. I’m confused. I’m even a little frightened by the reality of human vulnerability. I’m perplexed by the normative Christian response that she is “better off now.” I suppose that is true, but I don’t think her little 2-year-old granddaughter who thought her grandma was perfectly happy playing with her here would agree.

Once Jesus stood at the tomb where his friend’s dead body lay. He cried. I don’t think he just shed the kind of tears that embarrass grown men. He shouted words that would overcome death for one man for one time. He wept because as a human he experienced what every human before and after him has felt: The sting of death. The wretched reality that one will never walk beside his loved one again on this earth. Ever. The desolate awareness that a power so strong exists that it can snuff out the very breath of life.

Lazarus’ friends told Jesus it stunk. I think he agreed. I sure do. Death stinks.

Lest it appear I have lost faith, I haven’t. In fact, death probably makes me re-evaluate exactly what it is that I believe.

I’m banking on the other words Jesus said while he was here. Like the ones where he promised an eternal Kingdom where He would reign and the enemy called death would be dashed. Forever.

Living Like You Were Dying

Posted by Leona Bergstrom

We have written a good deal lately about the idea of making lists of things to do and experience before we die. It sounds so distant and far from reality. I think I’ve treated it like a baby shower game.

But, more often than I wish, the truth of life ending hits home and I’ve begun to wonder what it is that I really want to experience on this earth. The death of this young author, Dave Freeman, (see yesterday's post) who once took the time to compose a list of 100 things he wanted to do before dying, seems cruel and way too ironic.

I’ve thought about what my list should look like. Would it be different if I knew I was dying? Or if I was 20 years older? Would I want to go skydiving and ride a mechanical bull like Tim McGraw’s song “Live Like You Were Dying?” Probably not.

There are truly more places I want to go, like Sweden and Alabama. There are things I wish I owned, like a cabin by a river or a Bayliner motor boat. But, what I really want is to have deep conversations with my children and grandchildren about life and faith. I want to speak with clarity and grace to some of my relatives who don’t understand that God is real and that He loves them. I want to do and experience things that have meaning to God. I want to be sure that old people living in poverty get something to eat. I want to understand the generations and watch them interact with each other. I want to experience serenity.

Rather than live like I’m dying, I think I’m going to try living like I’m alive. Stay tuned.

Heaven is God’s Mystery - Leona speaks

At times of death and loss I often turn to Joni Erickson Tada’s devotional book entitled “Heaven, Your Real Home.” She has a most unique perspective on suffering and faith, loss and hope, earth and heaven.

I have a hard time reconciling the realities of death with heaven and what sometimes feels like fantasy thinking. So it helps to be reminded of the need for simple faith.

In her chapter, “Heaven is God’s Mystery,” she writes:

Heaven is your journey’s end, your life’s goal, your purpose for going on. You’re supposed to be eagerly awaiting it. But trying to grasp heaven without faith is like trying to admire the outside of a huge great cathedral with grand windows. Standing outside, you see an impressive but imposing structure. The building is striking, but has no real glory. But if you go inside the cathedral—which is a little like looking at heaven through eyes of faith—you are breathless as you stand washed in glorious colors from the light that streams through the window.

Faith takes us beyond the imposing and impressive language of golden cities and thrones, and reveals the better, brighter glory inside the walls of the New Jerusalem. Faith takes the descriptions of 24-karat asphalt and big pearls swinging on hinges and makes us certain that what we hope for is far, far better than here.

Joni Erickson Tada
Heaven: Your Real Home
Zondervan (1996)
Page 18

The unbearable knowing - Terry

This is what youth must figure out:
Girls, love, and living.
The having, the not having,
The spending and giving,
And the melancholy time of not knowing.

This is what age must learn about:
The ABC of dying.
The going, yet not going,
The loving and leaving
And the unbearable knowing and knowing.

--E. B. White

Leona speaks....

A friend died today.

It’s all too common of an occurrence lately it seems.

My friend: once vibrant, once wild with dreams and ideas--suddenly taken out by the swift blow from an enemy too strong to stand against any longer.

I’m sad. I’m confused. I’m even a little frightened by the reality of human vulnerability. I’m perplexed by the normative Christian response that she is “better off now.” I suppose that is true, but I don’t think her little 2-year-old granddaughter who thought her grandma was perfectly happy playing with her here would agree.

Once Jesus stood at the tomb where his friend’s dead body lay. He cried. I don’t think he just shed the kind of tears that embarrass grown men. He shouted words that would overcome death for one man for one time. He wept because as a human he experienced what every human before and after him has felt: The sting of death. The wretched reality that one will never walk beside his loved one again on this earth. Ever. The desolate awareness that a power so strong exists that it can snuff out the very breath of life.

Lazarus’ friends told Jesus it stunk. I think he agreed. I sure do. Death stinks.

Lest it appear I have lost faith, I haven’t. In fact, death probably makes me re-evaluate exactly what it is that I believe.

I’m banking on the other words Jesus said while he was here. Like the ones where he promised an eternal Kingdom where He would reign and the enemy called death would be dashed. Forever.

The Human Face of Progress - Terry

It's not often you read about someone turning down a million dollars. This is a story we have been following for some time now. I drive right past this house on my way to many places, so I think of this woman and her battle to stay in her house, against all odds, including a new Trader Joe’s and a new fitness club. Edith Macefield died Sunday and did, in fact, get to “die at home, in the same house, on the same couch, where her mother had died,” according to her friend. Check out the story at the Seattle Times. Guilt upon my head for my excitement at having a new Trader Joe's within a mile of my home! (Alan Berner, The Seattle Times, took the photo.)