“Whoever desires to save their life will lose it.”  Jesus in The Gospel According to Matthew

“Do you hear the love that’s falling from my eyes?” Lucinda Drayton

That question.  The one that serves as the title for this meditation.  That question.  It’s a hard one.  It is not only difficult, it is discomforting. 

That question was asked of me recently by the daughter of a dear friend who is actively dying.  It sent me down the proverbial rabbit hole. For you see I didn’t say anything to my father or my mother when they were departing from this earthly life, transitioning through death into new life.  The first by circumstance, the second by choice.  So, on the one hand I would say that you say nothing.  On the other, I would say everything. At least everything that means anything.

That question made me not only think of my parents and their deaths, but also all the other people whom I have journeyed with as they prepared to depart in peace.  So many.  Too many.  At one point it was like an assembly line of those passing before me—resulting in burning out on death. 

“What do you say to someone who is dying?”

How would you answer that question?

In one sense it is impossible to answer that question in a general way, for it is so very personal–unique to each person, each relationship, each situation.

That question is on my mind because it was asked soon after I had just left the dark, quiet, peaceful room in the hospice unit where my friend was living in the liminal space between life and death—and life.  And while I could’ve shared with her daughter what I had said to her mom, those words were too private and personal.  And what seemed more important to me at the time was what was shared nonverbally.

We shared space.  Sacred space.  I haven’t always seen a “dying room” like that.  In fact, I have shirked from it when possible, and been extremely uncomfortable being in it when it wasn’t possible to avoid.  The truth is I have abhorred death.  Or perhaps more accurately, the dying process.  It is awkward, unfamiliar, unknown, and definitely unwelcomed.  But it is a space that we all find ourselves in at some point in our lives, and certainly will at the end of our lives.  So, in that space that I was sharing with my friend, I focused initially not on what I would say to her, but simply on being with her.  On being fully present (Yes, I know, that sounds so glib and cliché-like, but it’s true), and as much as possible sensing The Presence of God with her—and us. 

In that thin space where heaven and earth intersected God was present. In that dark room we were surrounded by light.  Call it an energy, or spirit, or whatever you will, but there was something, or Someone, there with us.  It was easy to discern without much effort, or any effort at all.  The movie “City of Angels” depicts this in a very easy to grasp fashion.  Whether there was one angel or one hundred thousand, they were there.  We were not alone.  Holy spirits, the spirits of loved ones who had departed, or The Holy Spirit, or Christ Himself, or maybe all of them were in that room with us.

And we shared meaningful communication, though not verbally.   Her Parkinson’s had stolen her ability to talk.  Though I spoke, she couldn’t reciprocate.  She opened her eyes when I touched her hand and her face.  We held one another’s gaze. As the song says, focusing on the love that was falling from my eyes—and being returned in hers.  And that is what else we shared—The love of God. 

After a time, I did speak.  I spoke words of appreciation for her kindness and hospitality.  I told her how beautiful she still was; that her Parkinson’s had racked and ruined her body but it couldn’t rob her of her real and lasting beauty that was buried deep within her.  I told her that she had made an impact on my life and the lives of others.  And of course, I told her that I loved her.

And then I shared with her what I believe God was telling her; that she had nothing to fear, for she was entering into a life infinitely preferable to the one she was leaving.  That God was inviting her to come to Him, to leave her weariness and let go of the battle she had been fighting and surrender to pure love and new life. I reassured her, I hope, that God was waiting for her, along with others whom she loved.  (Yes, I really do believe that).  And that she would be joined to a love that was better than any she had experienced in this life. 

And then I told her that I would see her soon. 

“What do you say to someone who is dying?”  The possibilities are as varied and numerous as there are people and the personal relationships we share with them.  Sometimes we don’t say anything.  And when we have the chance to do so I don’t know that there are any “right words.”  I do know that I’d rather not wait to tell others whom I love how much they mean to me now.  Because death is a thief, and when it makes its appearance is unpredictable.  And so perhaps better not to wait to tell others what we want them to know, for we don’t know if we will get the chance to do so before they go.