Death is a teacher of time and treasure

"Dear angel guide my feet, I come each moment closer to the brink, it may be I am nearer home today, dear angel, than I think" Carved on an old headstone in an English cemetery

The headstone found in an old English cemetery relayed an incomplete story of a family struck by tragedy—the dad, James, died in 1929; his wife, Margaret, died a year later and his daughter, Mary, age 22, died the following year. One may imagine any number of stories to fill in the gaps of this family’s losses and it wouldn’t be hard to imagine a young girl of 22 years succumbing to the pain of a broken heart after losing both her parents so close to one another. She, herself, died just days before the second year anniversary of her father’s death.

It seems this story comes to mind for me most often as we approach the date of my own father’s June birthday. In some way, I suppose, I have projected on this young English girl my once seemingly unbearable pain at his death, followed closely by the death of my mother, so many years ago. It was a desolate time, one that taught me the cost of loving.

Surely, for those who remain behind, death is the cruelest blow. But it is only so because of the human heart’s desire and capacity to love, and in that truth we have evidence of our maker.

Who, but God, could have created a heart and soul capable of such deep love and such profound grief? And who would be better able to console us then the One who made us as we are?

In all of the significant losses of my life I have found God in my grieving, or perhaps it is God who found me, and in the finding reminded me that amid every loss there remained abundant blessings.

One such experience, profound in its simplicity, was a monumental step forward in the healing process of grief.

As I am often lead to do when pain threatens to overwhelm me, I had escaped to a little cottage at the beach to spend time alone in a place where time was all mine. A small paper journal recalled my day:

Here, at the shore, there had been time for making pie, a beautiful thing with golden brown crust and fresh, succulent blueberries. Unfortunately, the cat thought so, too, and in the whip of a tail the counter resounded with purple as in a display of children’s finger-painting, and the remnants of pie resembled a vat of paw-pressed grapes. I sighed.

Still, it was pie, none-the-less. With my eyes closed I slipped one salvaged morsel in my mouth, remembering a morning standing at short stocky bushes plump with blueberries and picking until my fingers took on the hue of distant mountains at the close of day. Gratitude welled up in me.

I must find joy in my life as it is, because it is mine, and I know it is mine by the generous hand of God. Such knowledge makes ignorance impossible as an excuse for failed gratitude and cast away blessings.

Whether in our most painful moments or through the stress and strain of daily life, it is easy to lose sight of gratitude, as it is easy to lose sight of the passing of time and the fragility of tomorrow. But death, which is so often the source of our deepest pain, has also taught me that cast away blessings are lost treasures and that joyfully living the life we are given is the most meaningful expression of gratitude.

Who, but God….?

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