Death becomes us

I am sorry I pulled a disappearing act this week. Just when you thought I was coming back in full-force *poof* I vanish again. Well, I am going to vanish again.

We found out on Wednesday that Leah’s Grandfather passed away. We will be leaving this evening and traveling to Minnesota for the funeral. In some ways, I can tell you that this was expected. It was coming. We knew for a while. There have been a few scares. Frankly, I was beginning to wonder if he just might be around a lot longer. But, we found out on Wednesday that it was his last day here.

You know me, I love language. I love stories. And as you might have guessed, I have been thinking about the stories we tell ourselves when people die. My thoughts on this actually started a couple months ago when we began watching the television series Six Feet Under.

I have already received many Sorry to hear that, My prayers are with you, etc. And I, myself, have offered some as well. And it’s part of the stories we tell. I am not suggesting that we don’t mean it. But it’s how we respond to other peoples pain.

It’s been a while since I have been to a funeral. For me—and I assume many of you—it often forces me to look at my life and think I need to start doing better. That’s a story. Or else I might think I am here to respect and honour this life. Or I am here for family. It was their time. And there’s probably a lot more stories we might tell. Or maybe we ignore death all together, so then maybe it didn’t really happen.

I used to think that stories came first. (And this might be a chicken and egg scenario.) You might be surprised to hear that I am not sure that’s true anymore. I think action comes first and then the story. Something happens and our response is story even though sooner or later they start to mix.

Someone dies. That is the action. Our response is a story. But I can’t help but wonder if it’s not just glossing over the gigantic hole in our heart. The pain of someone leaving. And in light of that, all those stories seem to fade away. And all you could ever hope is that you could have them back. And usually the response to this is faith or a rational response. But I don’t know that either are appropriate. Some times you just have to soak in it. You have to jump down that hole and wait till you hit bottom.

I was reading the other day that they successfully cloned a dog in South Korea. My first thought was Awww look at the cute puppies. My second thought was—I wonder if I could get Charlie’s DNA, maybe we could bring him back. There are probably still a few hairs around the house. Because I miss him. A lot. And Charlie was only the best dog I have ever known. But I can’t have him back, not even with cloning. And that’s just a hole in my heart.

I don’t know the best response to death. But I am going to be there to celebrate, to mourn, to listen and to support. I didn’t know Gaylon Ayotte. I shook his hand once. Leah did. He was her grandfather. And a good one, from the stories I hear.

I’ll be back some time next week.