It's a lovely wintry afternoon. The snow swirled down this morning, just long enough to lay a thin covering over the mud and brown grass. Though I hope for more, soon, today that fine white dusting is enough. A little bit of snow, a little bit of grace.
My uncle is dying. He is riddled with cancer, stomach and esophagus and bones. It was very unexpected, has happened very quickly. His 65th birthday is in March, when he planned to retire. But his work, and life, are ending sooner than anyone thought.
He is surrounded by many people who love him, family and friends and the people from his church, where he's been the pastor for nearly a decade. Today most of the people from his congregation filled his home, singing hymns to lift him, encourage him, be light to him and his family. Be a little bit of grace to go with him on his way. I look through the pictures and posts on Facebook, experiencing it all from a distance: Montana is my home, but it is very far away from most of my family. Right now it feels too far.
One of my friends attends my uncle's church and was part of the service at his home today. She told me it was a "beautiful and terrible moment all wrapped together."
Cancer is terrible. Death is terrible. Lives ending are terrible. But the grace in all of this is that somehow, despite the awfulness, there is beauty, too. This is beauty: my Uncle Archie being surrounded by people who love him, people who are gladly ministering to him after all his years of ministering to them. Though he wished for more years, more time, Archie says he is at peace.
As these hard days pass I find all the little pieces of my daily life taking up more space. The steam rising from a cup of hot tea wafts slowly through the air, shimmers in the shaft of sunlight coming through the window. The four white swans on the icy pond at the wildlife refuge seem magical, otherworldly, as they spread their bright wings in the sunshine. The barest sliver of new moon hanging in the blue-green twilight glows more radiantly than I would have thought possible.
On Friday I walked to work while listening to an On Being podcast with Carrie Newcomer, a wonderful folk singer-songwriter. She talked about light, and about darkness. She talked about thresholds, being in that liminal zone between old and new. And she sang several songs, including one called A Light in the Window. As I walked and listened, the thick fog that lay settled in the valley began to lift, and golden sunbeams sliced through, sharp and bright.
Standing here on a new threshold,
I can see a light,
There's a light in the window.
And the world is made of stone,
And the world is made of glass.
And the world is made of light,
And it's moving very fast.
We pass from mystery to mystery
So I won't lie
I don't know what happens
When people die.
But I hope that I see you walking slow,
Smiling wide as a sunrise grows,
Drop my map with a thousand folds,
In the distance I see it glow,
There's a light, there's a light
There's a light in the window.
I will miss my Uncle Archie's laugh.
I will miss his jokes, his quicker-than-lightning wit, his presence. He is a big person--not only in physical size but in personality, in heart, in spirit.
I will miss his kindness, his thoughtfulness, his intelligence.
I will miss his bear hugs and the ever-present twinkle in his eye, his booming voice, and his way of seeing the world that pushes beyond what is immediately before us to the depth and complexity that lies beneath.
He is on the threshold, about to embark on the next mystery.
I hope that I see him walking slow,
Smiling wide as the sunrise grows.
In the distance I see it glow,
There's a light, there's a light
There's a light in the window.
As these hard days pass I find all the little pieces of my daily life taking up more space. The steam rising from a cup of hot tea wafts slowly through the air, shimmers in the shaft of sunlight coming through the window. The four white swans on the icy pond at the wildlife refuge seem magical, otherworldly, as they spread their bright wings in the sunshine. The barest sliver of new moon hanging in the blue-green twilight glows more radiantly than I would have thought possible.
On Friday I walked to work while listening to an On Being podcast with Carrie Newcomer, a wonderful folk singer-songwriter. She talked about light, and about darkness. She talked about thresholds, being in that liminal zone between old and new. And she sang several songs, including one called A Light in the Window. As I walked and listened, the thick fog that lay settled in the valley began to lift, and golden sunbeams sliced through, sharp and bright.
Standing here on a new threshold,
I can see a light,
There's a light in the window.
And the world is made of stone,
And the world is made of glass.
And the world is made of light,
And it's moving very fast.
We pass from mystery to mystery
So I won't lie
I don't know what happens
When people die.
But I hope that I see you walking slow,
Smiling wide as a sunrise grows,
Drop my map with a thousand folds,
In the distance I see it glow,
There's a light, there's a light
There's a light in the window.
I will miss my Uncle Archie's laugh.
I will miss his jokes, his quicker-than-lightning wit, his presence. He is a big person--not only in physical size but in personality, in heart, in spirit.
I will miss his kindness, his thoughtfulness, his intelligence.
I will miss his bear hugs and the ever-present twinkle in his eye, his booming voice, and his way of seeing the world that pushes beyond what is immediately before us to the depth and complexity that lies beneath.
He is on the threshold, about to embark on the next mystery.
I hope that I see him walking slow,
Smiling wide as the sunrise grows.
In the distance I see it glow,
There's a light, there's a light
There's a light in the window.
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