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Luke 24:28-32
(From the story of the disciples' meeting Jesus on the Road to Emmaus)

They came to the edge of the village where they were headed. He acted as if he were going on but they pressed him: "Stay and have supper with us. It's nearly evening; the day is done." So he went in with them. And here is what happened: He sat down at the table with them. Taking the bread, he blessed and broke and gave it to them. At that moment, open-eyed, wide-eyed, they recognized him.  And then he disappeared.  Back and forth they talked.  "Didn't we feel on fire as he conversed with us on the road, as he opened up the Scriptures for us?"


Losses often come at the darkest time of the year.  That pretty much takes the "merry" out of Christmas.  And yet . . . surprisingly . . . sometimes the very difficulty of the loss and the journey through and beyond it, can reveal the deeper meanings of the season, producing both growth and a spiritual confidence as a result. 

That was my experience when my mother, Polly, died on December 20, 1996 at age 86 in a nursing home in Florida.  She had been a widow for eight years, my father, Jim, having died eight years earlier during their 49th year of marriage.  She went by ambulance to the hospital to determine the cause of her middle-of-the-night dizziness when she tried to navigate to the bathroom but fell . . . the second such occasion that year.  In spite of there being no injuries or disease entities other than her chronic Lupus, which was in a period of remission, upon being admitted she would not eat nor drink and quickly slipped into a non-responsive state.  When I arrived in her room, she was hooked up to  an IV and "came to" only when Sally, beloved by both of us and a life-long contemporary of hers, and I spoke to her.  Sally spoke into her right ear, I into her left.  She awoke and exclaimed:  "Well, hello!  What are you two doing here?"  She rallied.  My wife and daughter joined me in visiting her, for it gradually became clear that she had made her peace with God and was ready to die.  Her pastors agreed that on a deep spiritual level she was ready to go . . . and the hospital's psychiatrist found her not to be depressed.  We celebrated Thanksgiving with a meal on hospital trays sitting on chairs around her bed.  At the end of the month, she was transferred to a nearby nursing home.

There are conversations one never expects to have with a parent . . . or anyone else, really.  

On December 3rd, this usually determined, fiesty, in-love-with-life woman turned to me and said ernestly . . . almost pleadingly . . .  "I just wish I knew how to die."  I spent a year over the next two days prayerfully considering if I should tell her that she apparently had already found such a way.  The story of the deeply conflicted thoughts and emotions I experienced and my decision-making is too lengthy to recount here in this piece.  But on December 5th, I told her.  She began our last conversation on December 6 by proudly announcing, "No food or water has passed these lips since yesterday!  I should be gone in a couple of days!"  I told her that it would more likely be a couple of weeks.  After pausing to consider that, she said, "Well, okay then."

Hard of hearing, even with expensive hearing aids, there was a phone in the hallway outside her room.  But phone communications would have been an ordeal:  first, being wheeled by an attendant to the phone; second, trying to understand a voice that sounded faint and garbled.  And why would I disturb her from whatever journey she was on to ask her how her dying was going?  So I made sure the nurses would play the tapes I'd made for her with her favorite music, along with my recorded voice introducing a series of songs and assuring her that I loved her.  A local florist saw to it that she was provided with the fresh carnations whose spicy scents she so enjoyed, nose buried in blooms.  We spoke, hugged and kissed one another goodbye.  My flight home was either very short or very long.  I could not tell you which.

That's the background of the story.  I'll share with you the rest in the form of a poem written in blank verse several years after she died.


"Polly,
Slow down!" he'd say
As we walked through
Autumn's scurrying leaves,
To a neighbor's house
Up the road ahead.

She'd turn 'round with
Grin and aggravation
Both.
"Jim, you're just
Too slow!"
That's how
It went.
That's how we
Went.

She led;
We followed . . .
Sometimes catching up --
Inevitably falling behind again . . .
A call and response litany of
"Slow down!"
"Hurry up!"

Maybe that's why
He died before her.
Finally, after 49 years
Of walking that way
He got ahead of her . . .
Went to that Place
He was so certain of
And he knew . . .
Just knew in his bones . . .
He'd see her coming year's later
Up the road ahead.
And I was just as certain that
In his newfound life Beyond
He was itching to grin at her
At last . . . and ask:
"Polly!
What took you so long?"

I knew her longer
Than he did --
For 55 years I
Watched her walk
Ahead . . .
Although her left foot sometimes
Drooped
And more than once she
Followed it
Stumbling down
Onto the pavement.
And of course I wouldn't know of it
Until in some offhand way
She slipped it into a catalogue of
Happenings
In one of our weekly conversations
On the phone.

"You what!?"
I'd ask with alarm
And aggravation.
"Oh I'm fine now . . .
Just a little stiff"
Said the voice from
A thousand miles south on I-95 . . .
And just as far
Up the road ahead.

So why was I surprised when she,
Having no critical condition,
But in the hospital convalescing,
Decided she was
Tired . . .
And stopped eating and drinking
The richness of the life she'd
Been tasting for
Eighty six years?

In our last conversation
My eyes were teary,
Hers were closed when
I asked:
"Do you think you'll recognize
Those whom you've known and loved
Once you get where you're going
After you die?"

When she opened her eyes they were
Teary . . .
Mine were freshly dried . . . .
"No.
I don't think I'll see any of them
There . . . ."
Something like dark, hot tar
Flowed over my soul at that
Bleak prospect . . .
I couldn't breathe.
"No,"
And then she
Fixed my tears with hers:
"But the love we shared was so strong,
We'll just know we're there!"

Then, with a smile, she
Lowered her thin body back
Into the embrace of pillows
And memories
And visits from friends so
Close
They eventually had to stay away
Because it hurt too much to see
Her walking all alone
On a road up ahead . . .
So far ahead . . .
Where they weren't yet ready to
Follow.

For two weeks it was
Her name I murmurred
In my rising up and
Laying down.
A thousand miles away
I waited that
Wait
Which sometimes is love's
Only loving path,
Knowing only that
Soon
The call would come
Saying that one more time
She'd gone
Up the road ahead.

It came in the morning
At half-past three and
Tumbled me,
Unwilling, from a
Dream which was not a
Dream.
"Yes . . . I see . . .
Fifteen minutes ago you say?
Yes . . . Thank you for
Calling."

Returning to bed
With the covers
Pulled up
The same dream was there
Again . . .
A minimalist scene:
Just a blackened screen
Save for a burnished,
Fingertip-sized,
Gold-toned light . . .
There, in the corner . . .
Upper-left . . .
Nothing else . . .
Except . . .
Except that
I felt her presence there . . .
All around me . . .
Loving me with a
Generous, smiling
Warmth that held me
Close and confident
Into which I
Relaxed . . .
Back-floating in a warm and
Nurturing pool.

That's when I remembered what
She'd said:
"The love we shared was so
Strong
We'll just know we're there!"

With the passing of the months and years . . .
Though there are some times
I wish that she were here . . .
Easter is more real than ever before it was . . .
And Christmas truly
Merry . . .
For now,
Its just fine
To let her go on . . .
Way out in front . . .
Up the road
Ahead.