Have you ever done something habitual, totally commonplace, without thinking, and afterward, someone–or many someones–look at you as if you’ve just come back from the moon? This happened to me a few weeks ago… Continue reading →
Having spent all morning laboring over A Case of the Mondays, I gathered myself to head into the office about noon yesterday. Waiting for me in my inbox when I got to work was a request to trek out to a hospice facility to perform Last Rites for a dying parishioner.
One who wrote unflinchingly of death, Ms. Dickinson’s poem (below) has been bouncing around in my head and heart this week. I don’t know that I quite agree with her that we shall not use our love again until eternity, but I know the busyness of funeral-planning that often overtakes one (or an entire family), and the urge to vacuum up broken bits of heart.
The Bustle in a House
The Morning after Death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon Earth –
The Sweeping up the Heart
And putting Love away
We shall not want to use again
Until Eternity –
I hope we do use that love again; even the same love I had and have for Grandpa used for his children, grandchildren, and hoped-for great-grandchildren. I think that’s a piece of resurrection in the midst of death. Hope in the middle of darkness.