Praying for A Good Death
Illustration
Stories
The spirit of the Lord God is upon me,
because the Lord has anointed me;
he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,
to bind up the brokenhearted… to comfort all who mourn; to provide for those who mourn in Zion —
to give them a garland instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning… (vv. 1a, 2b-3a)
A friend I have known for fifty years is dying. I am expecting to get “that call” from her husband any day. So, I have been thinking about death. It is always there, in the back of my mind, especially since my brother, who when we were growing up, shared a bed with me for sixteen years, passed suddenly three years ago. I live with the thought of it. And I wonder about it.
Henri Nouwen, one of the great spiritual teachers of the twentieth century, who I had the privilege of hearing speak not long before he crossed over in 1996, once wondered: “Is death something so terrible and absurd that we are better off not thinking or talking about it? Is death such an undesirable part of our existence that we are better off acting as if it were not real? Is death such an absolute end of all our thoughts and actions that we simply cannot face it? Or is it possible to befriend our dying gradually and live open to it, trusting that we have nothing to fear? Is it possible to prepare for our death with the same attentiveness that our parents had preparing for our birth? Can we wait for our death as for a friend who wants to welcome us home?”
Garrison Keillor tells about a funeral he attended in which the priest looked out at the congregation and said, “I don't know who it is, but we will be back here doing this again soon. It may be for the youngest person here, or for the oldest person here, it may be for the sickest person here, or for the healthiest person here, it may be for you, or it may for be me, but someone here will be the next person to die, and for whoever it is, I want to pray for him or her, for you or me. And with that, the priest bowed his head and prayed for grace. He prayed for peace. He prayed for the ‘good death’ of whoever was next. And then he returned to his customary script and finished the rite of burial.
“On the way back to their cars after the service, Keillor said that he eavesdropped on the conversations of the people who passed by him. He was interested in hearing their reactions to the priest’s improvisation on the usual service. Personally, he’d loved it. He called it a rare example of someone telling the truth. But he was the exception. The other people he heard talking about it as they went to their cars hated it. ‘Who does he think he is?’ they wanted to know. ‘What gave him the right to say something like that to us?’ they angrily asked. ‘I didn’t come here to be told that!’ they huffed.”
Most of us do not like to be reminded that death is coming sooner or later. But there comes a time in every life when the tide changes, when we accept the inevitable because the alternative, living with ever increasing pain, is intolerable. Douglas Skinner wrote, “Processing the news of the active dying of someone I love very much, I’ve been pondering the journey by which death shifts from being the enemy we avoid at all costs to the friend we welcome, and perhaps even embrace.”
My Facebook friend, Natalie Osan, from Stockbridge, Michigan, posted a little story about a man who was sitting with his beloved wife as she lay dying. I saved it in case I should ever, you know…
“She said, ‘Don't call the doctor, I want to fall asleep peacefully, with your hand in mine.’
“He told her about the past, how they met, their first kiss. They didn't cry, they smiled. They didn't regret anything, they were grateful. Then she repeated softly, 'I love you forever!' He returned her words, gave her a soft kiss on the forehead. She closed her eyes and fell asleep peacefully with her hand in his.”
This is what I hope for my friend who is dying.
because the Lord has anointed me;
he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,
to bind up the brokenhearted… to comfort all who mourn; to provide for those who mourn in Zion —
to give them a garland instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning… (vv. 1a, 2b-3a)
A friend I have known for fifty years is dying. I am expecting to get “that call” from her husband any day. So, I have been thinking about death. It is always there, in the back of my mind, especially since my brother, who when we were growing up, shared a bed with me for sixteen years, passed suddenly three years ago. I live with the thought of it. And I wonder about it.
Henri Nouwen, one of the great spiritual teachers of the twentieth century, who I had the privilege of hearing speak not long before he crossed over in 1996, once wondered: “Is death something so terrible and absurd that we are better off not thinking or talking about it? Is death such an undesirable part of our existence that we are better off acting as if it were not real? Is death such an absolute end of all our thoughts and actions that we simply cannot face it? Or is it possible to befriend our dying gradually and live open to it, trusting that we have nothing to fear? Is it possible to prepare for our death with the same attentiveness that our parents had preparing for our birth? Can we wait for our death as for a friend who wants to welcome us home?”
Garrison Keillor tells about a funeral he attended in which the priest looked out at the congregation and said, “I don't know who it is, but we will be back here doing this again soon. It may be for the youngest person here, or for the oldest person here, it may be for the sickest person here, or for the healthiest person here, it may be for you, or it may for be me, but someone here will be the next person to die, and for whoever it is, I want to pray for him or her, for you or me. And with that, the priest bowed his head and prayed for grace. He prayed for peace. He prayed for the ‘good death’ of whoever was next. And then he returned to his customary script and finished the rite of burial.
“On the way back to their cars after the service, Keillor said that he eavesdropped on the conversations of the people who passed by him. He was interested in hearing their reactions to the priest’s improvisation on the usual service. Personally, he’d loved it. He called it a rare example of someone telling the truth. But he was the exception. The other people he heard talking about it as they went to their cars hated it. ‘Who does he think he is?’ they wanted to know. ‘What gave him the right to say something like that to us?’ they angrily asked. ‘I didn’t come here to be told that!’ they huffed.”
Most of us do not like to be reminded that death is coming sooner or later. But there comes a time in every life when the tide changes, when we accept the inevitable because the alternative, living with ever increasing pain, is intolerable. Douglas Skinner wrote, “Processing the news of the active dying of someone I love very much, I’ve been pondering the journey by which death shifts from being the enemy we avoid at all costs to the friend we welcome, and perhaps even embrace.”
My Facebook friend, Natalie Osan, from Stockbridge, Michigan, posted a little story about a man who was sitting with his beloved wife as she lay dying. I saved it in case I should ever, you know…
“She said, ‘Don't call the doctor, I want to fall asleep peacefully, with your hand in mine.’
“He told her about the past, how they met, their first kiss. They didn't cry, they smiled. They didn't regret anything, they were grateful. Then she repeated softly, 'I love you forever!' He returned her words, gave her a soft kiss on the forehead. She closed her eyes and fell asleep peacefully with her hand in his.”
This is what I hope for my friend who is dying.
