Stock Photo – Unsplash
By Ken Rolheiser
“Doctor, I am afraid to die. Tell me what lies on the other side.” Very quietly, the doctor said, “I don’t know.” The doctor was holding the handle of the door. On the other side came a sound of scratching and whining, and as he opened the door, a dog sprang into the room.
The doctor explained, “Did you notice my dog? He’s never been in this room before. He knew nothing except that his master was here. When the door opened, he sprang in without fear. I know little of what is on the other side of death, but I do know one thing. I know my Master is there and that is enough.”
“Memento mori” is a reminder of our mortality. Remember death. The Stoics reflect on this frequently as a way to reorder their appreciation of and gratitude for life’s gifts.
As a writer, I recall Annie Dillard’s words, “Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case.”
Here is a story that short-circuits much of the pain of parting: “My parents were married for fifty-five years. One morning, my mom was going downstairs to make dad breakfast; she had a heart attack and fell.” By the time they reached the hospital, she was gone.
During the funeral, my father did not speak. He hardly cried. That night, his children joined him. In an atmosphere of pain and nostalgia, we remembered beautiful anecdotes, and he asked my brother, a theologian, to tell him where Mom would be at that moment.
Suddenly he asked us to take him to the cemetery. We protested. He insisted. “Don’t argue with me; please don’t argue with the man who just lost his wife of fifty-five years.”
We went to the cemetery. My father caressed her, prayed and told his children, who watched the scene, moved: “It was fifty-five years… you know?” He recounted how they went through life’s crises together, shared joy and pain, and forgave each other’s mistakes. “Children, now it’s gone, and I’m happy, do you know why?
“Because she left before me. She didn’t have to go through the agony and pain of burying me, of being left alone after my departure… I thank God. I love her so much that I wouldn’t have liked her to suffer.”
When my father finished speaking, my brothers and I had tears streaming down our faces. We hugged him, and he comforted us, “It’s okay, we can go home; it’s been a good day.” (Author unknown).
Donna Ashworth shares thoughts on how to handle the sadness of parting. If your departed one could speak, they would say, “Take the love you had for me and turn it into gladness; use the love you had for me to drive away the sadness.”
Love is an energy, so powerful, so all-consuming that when the person you felt all that love for is not here, you are a vessel filled with a boundless source of power that has nowhere to go. Harness it.
“Use the love we shared to make more love and not more pain.” Tell their stories, mention their name, feel their love – and share it. Do not let the pain of their loss overshadow the love that they created whilst alive. Make them count.
“The stronger the love, the deeper the grief, but love, love will always win in the end.” (Donna Ashworth).
Ken Rolheiser is an author of six books and a spiritual column PAUSE FOR REFLECTION since 1998. A lay minister in St Joseph’s Parish and an occasional speaker, Ken has been involved in the Canora Ministerial Association and the Archdiocesan Stewardship Committee (as well as others). For details see www.kenrolheiser.com.
