Matters of Faith: Death and Dying

I force my feet to take me into the room. I can hear her sharp breaths, rhythmic, each one sounding like another may not follow. My mother, stalwart, stands nearby, clearly worn by the events of the last few weeks. She watches me as I looked her over, laying withered in a bed, only a shell of the woman she had been just  several weeks earlier. 

How is she? I ask

The same, Mom answers. It's just a matter of time.

I continue to stare, waiting for some sign of life besides the mechanical breathing. I will myself to see my grandmother somewhere underneath the paper flesh, the sagging bones, the chest going up down, up down, up down. 

Do you want a moment? Mom asked. I'll step outside.

My mom had called me earlier that day, saying hospice had given my Nana less than two day to live. I should come down and say goodbye.  I had known it was coming, as the strokes kept coming and she was no longer coherent, no longer awake. I reluctantly got into my car and made the thirty minute drive to the nursing home where she was residing. I was surprised by the emotion that overwhelmed me, the tears that I couldn't stop from falling. 

I was afraid to face her.

Yet here I am, alone in a room with my dying grandmother. What does one say to a relative that is dying? Does she hear you? Should you touch them, to let them know you are there? I can feel the pressure of saying everything I never said and should have said, all in these last moments. Will my words go into a void? Will she take them with her?

As the clock ticks away, I find myself telling her I love her. I share with her how I've been struggling with my beliefs, with my faith, with God. I ask her to show me it's all real: God, heaven, the life that we live. I want it to be real, I need it to be. For me. For her. For this here, right now. I tell her I don't want her to be scared. I tell her it's okay to leave now, that we're ready. 

I kiss her, and my mom comes back in the room. 

Normalcy resumes, as normal as it can be in a situation like this. More people come, and I can't shake the loop running continuously through my head:  

Let it be real. Please. Let it be real.

*****

I lost my Nana more than two years ago, yet I remember this moment as though I just lived it. I cannot escape the conflict of emotions and thoughts I felt while I was with her. Saying goodbye to this woman that I loved dearly, who was but a mere reflection of a fate I would one day face.

Death, facing our own mortality, is a frightening concept.

There is something uncomfortable and petrifying about facing our mortality. It brings about the realization that life is finite, that one day the joys of this life, the heartaches, the victories, the struggles, will be diminished to nothing. This life does not come with us.

But to where do we go?

If there is one thought that gives me pause in my struggles with Faith, it is Death. Living the Christian life, believing that God exists and that we commune with Him in this life through Jesus Christ, brings hope to life. It gives life meaning. Our struggles, our toils, lead us to greater things.  Believing in God through Jesus Christ gives hope to death. It gives death meaning, to believe we go enjoy eternity with God. Greater things lie ahead.

There is great comfort in this thought. Comfort in the thought that my dying grandmother did not know fear in those final moments, that she did not know pain. I yearn to believe that there was great light and joy, and that she was ushered out of this life and into the next.

I yearn to believe.

But if you've followed me along this journey, believing is not always easy. I still do not know what I believe, my struggles are still fresh and present. I continue fighting to reconcile the unanswered questions, the things that do not make sense, the parts of life and death that Faith doesn't cover. I continue to struggle with Faith like a blanket too small for my body, pulling up to warm my arms, only to unearth my toes to the cold.

I long to know there is more to this life, that there is meaning. I want to believe that this life is only the title page of a Great Story. But I cannot allow God to win by default. Letting God win by default is a coward's choice. It is the easy choice.  I do not believe Faith means believing in God because the alternative is unbearable.

One should believe in God because He is.

And so I continue to journey on.

Life and Death: A Conversation

"What is 'alive'?"


I had opened my mouth to answer her, but no words came forth. Stumped, I shut my jaw, thought for a moment, and tried again to give her a definition. Nothing.


We'd been outside on a beautiful Spring day enjoying the sunshine and green grass. She'd brought over to me a wilted and dried up flower, wondering out loud if it would continue to grow bigger.


"No," I'd casually replied. "It's dead because it got picked."


"Dead?" She pondered, furrowing her brow as she tried to understand.


"Yeah. You know. It's not alive anymore."


She had stopped and thought about that for a moment. Then she looked up at me and asked:


"What is 'alive?'"


I was completely ill-equipped to answer her.






As the mother of two young girls, I have prepared myself for many things: For the first time one of them comes home having learned a curse word. Prepared for how to answer to them when they ask me where babies come from. Prepared for the surprise shaved head, earring or tattoo . Prepared to completely go ape on the first boy that breaks their hearts.


But this, I was completely unprepared for.


How do you begin to explain the ideas of life and death? Dead versus alive? To a 3 year old, nonetheless? Grasping the idea of one demands an understanding of the other. Dead means no longer alive. And alive? Alive is the state of not being dead. I take for granted the complexity of thoughts and the ability I have to understand them.

I had looked down at my daughter, so innocent and new to life. In her short time on this earth, she has not yet known true pain and suffering. How do I begin to explain to her what it means to grieve? That not only do flowers die, but people die as well? They will leave us in this world, a void that we have to accept. How do I explain that death can be sad? That we will never again get to see those who are no longer alive? That sometimes our hearts will break because we miss them so much?


How do I explain to a child that sometimes death can be a relief? As you've watched someone suffer for years from cancer, dying a slow death, there is a sweet burden lifted in the moment they are taken from this world and no longer in pain? As you've watched someone lead a long life that has been unfair and unjust, there is relief in knowing that whatever life they live after they die will undoubtedly be better than the one they lived here on Earth?


I had knelt down next to her, her small hand gripping the conversation starter. The weighty discussion that had yet to be had was a stark contrast against the glowing streams of sunlight and vibrantly blue sky. Today was the the tangible definition of alive.


How do I explain to her what it means to be alive? To have breath in our lungs, thoughts in our minds, emotions in our hearts? To have the hope that, when we go to sleep after a fun-filled day, we will wake to the morning light and start anew? That being alive means we grow, we change, we mature? That we have second chances?


How do I explain the concept of what it means to truly live? That we are meant to do more than merely survive? That life is full of passion. Adventure. Pain. Joy. Sadness. We will fail. We will succeed. We will learn. We will be scared. We will overcome.


She is so small. Yet, she will lead such a big life. She will make friends, she will scrape her knees, she will create beautiful things. She will fall in love, she will have her heart broken. She will know joy and pain. She will learn and grow. She will one day understand what it means to die, and grasp the immensity of what it means to really live.


In her short three years, she has yet to know a real loss. In the course of a year, she has lost two great-grandmothers, but they were peripherals in her young life. She did not see them every day, and still lacks the reality that they won't be at the next birthday party or holiday celebration. She speaks of them from time to time as though they still are, and we do our best to give her truth without squashing her spirit. And perhaps she is wiser than all of us: treating Death with a lightness and freedom, taking it in while not letting it hold her back. Knowing that even in their absence, those she has lost are still part of who she is and who she will become.


I did not adequately explain the life cycle of a flower that day, nor did I impart the philosophical truths behind being alive. I shied away from sharing the hard to accept fact that one day our hearts will stop beating in our chests and we will be ushered into eternity. I'm not sure I remember exactly what I said to her that day, but I know it involved fumbling over the idea that alive means we can breathe and grow. And for her, that was enough to satisfy her questioning mind.


I, on the other hand, was left with many questions and a new appreciation for the job we have as parents to present the world honestly. I know one day in the future we will engage in this conversation once again. The circumstances will most likely be heavier, and we will be talking about a more valuable loss. She will be able to comprehend more and feel more deeply.


And it will be my job to come prepared with a better answer.

How do you suggest talking to children about loss? Life and death? What is your experience with this conversation? Please leave your thoughts and stories below!