I know better than to enter
the mountain ranges of Silence alone and unarmed,
because I know they will be there, too, the
Voices.
Today I picked up a phrase, a walking stick to carry
with me, God, what is it
that I should do? It was light
in my hands, an easy burden.
Still, the Voices waited, sidled up next
to me, tried to lead me down familiar slivers.
Before I pulled my way through the first line
of brambles, the
Voices had me arguing in my mind
with other writers who do not appreciate
my genius, and literary people who have not embraced
my work, and friends who have never
read my books,
but then I remembered the hiking stick I brought
with me, God, what is it
that I should do? I sank
into those words and the silence between
them.
The Voices dispersed
when they saw what I carried with me. They are fragile
enemies, fickle
friends. It is always a relief to leave
them behind.
Silence is a beautiful range, once you get beyond
the brambles, up into the hills that fold
over one another, with peaks that glow
like honey in the light, and valleys dark as
warmth. There is hope there, and peace, if you
remember to take a walking stick, if you
can get in beyond the tangled undergrowth
of Voices.
Fifteen minutes later
– or a lifetime – I always emerge washed
by the thin air. I always descend
a changed being. Silence will follow you back out,
if you let it. Silence will
remind you there is A Voice
beyond the voices, one that will
rename you
if you let it.
My son sat in the passenger’s seat as I drove our truck into one of the poorer sections of our city. We pulled a small trailer behind the truck, and it was loaded down with three dressers, an end table, a dining room table, and a few other odds and ends. Two old African-American women sat on their porch and stared at us as we drove past. One young man used a leaf blower to clear the sidewalks. Other than that, the street was empty. Other than the leaf blower, the street was silent.
We pulled to the side and looked for my friend Melissa. She was meeting us there, introducing us to a Ugandan family, recent refugees to the United States. They had lived in a refugee camp in Africa for seven years before making the trip to the southern end of the city of Lancaster. Seven years. Three of the children had been born in the camp and knew nothing of the world beside temporary lodging, prepackaged food. There are ten of them now sharing the house.
We are new to them. This place is new to them. They don’t completely understand the way we live. When Melissa first joined a team of people from CWS to help this family with their transition, she soon learned they were taking their clean clothes from the dryer and sorting them into garbage bags. They didn’t get the concept of folding, of putting clothes away neatly until it was time to wear them.
When Cade and I got there, the father greeted us, though he could speak little English. The son, 24 years old, grinned and nodded and grinned and nodded and spoke occasionally. When he saw the largest chest of drawers, he insisted we take it up to his room. All the way on the third floor. Up two very narrow, very steep staircases.
We fought that piece of furniture, he and I, and eventually it submitted. We wrestled it to the top of the house, he and I against it and gravity, and when we finally had it in place, the look on his face made it all worth while.
“Thank you,” he said, his dark eyes shining. “Thank you.” He nodded his head up and down, up and down, and there was something of the miraculous in the whole situation. Strangers had arrived out of nowhere and given him this fabulous gift. He stared at that dresser the way a typical American 20-something would stare at a new car. It was another piece to the puzzle of his life in the United States.
Why do I feel I must justify our willingness to let them into the country?
I tell this story because now, so soon after terrorists have worked their wicked magic, it would be easy to let fear guide us. It would be easy to pull into our protective shell. It would be easy to shake our heads, sigh, and say, “No more.”
No more Muslims.
No more Syrians.
No more Strangers.
It is, after all, the logical thing to do. And our professional pundits, our aspiring politicians, they all agree. They are, after all, peddling fear. They always are. Unfortunately, we are usually buying.
“Giving asylum to Syrian refugees is ‘the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,'” said Sean Hannity.
“I’m putting people on notice that are coming here from Syria as part of this mass migration, that if I win, they’re going back,” said Donald Trump.
Protecting ourselves, protecting our best interests, that’s the logical thing to do. Even if it means turning away people with legitimate needs.
But it’s not the Christian thing to do.
There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves punishment, and the one who fears is not perfected in love.We love, because He first loved us…” 1 John 4:18-19
He answered, “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.'” Luke 10:27
“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven.” Matthew 5:43-45
It’s actually rather upside-down, rather silly. But that’s the Kingdom of God for you, because the Kingdom of God doesn’t make sense. In the Kingdom of God, we do good for those who hate us. In the Kingdom of God, the smallest of things can move mountains. In the Kingdom of God, we are told to return violence with non-violence. The first will be last, the last first. The meek will inherit the earth. It’s a Kingdom that belongs to the poor in spirit.
It’s a Kingdom that doesn’t make any sense.
What does make sense? Well, it would make perfect sense to stop welcoming refugees – after all, they might be ISIS! It would make perfect sense to stop taking in the needy, the orphans, the widows – after all, they might simply become freeloaders! It would make perfect sense to turn our back on those we consider enemy, those we consider other, those we don’t understand.
My life is fine as it is, thank you very much.
All I want is to be left alone.
Bootstraps.
They should sort out their own country instead of coming here.
It would make perfect sense to turn inward. But it doesn’t make Kingdom sense.
The Kingdom of God insists, “Love your enemies!”
The Kingdom of God implores, “Love others because God first loved you!”
This upside-down Kingdom shouts, “Get out of the boat and walk to me on the water!”
Can we do that? Can we leave our safe places of security? Our comfortable places? Can we stand on the moving waves of these terror-filled days and somehow maintain compassionate hearts?
Can the power of love somehow manage to overwhelm our fear?
In 2009, my wife woke to a ball of anxiety about what was happening, about our business going under and all the debt weighing us down, about us having to leave a place we loved and move our family of six into my parents’ basement 150 miles away. She slid out of bed, down onto the floor, and put her face in the plush carpet.
How can this be happening? God, how can you let this happen?
She heard the closest thing she’s ever heard to an audible voice from heaven, and it echoed in her mind, one phrase reverberating and growing.
This is a gift.
When the phrase faded off into the darkness, disappearing beneath the whirring of the ceiling fan, my wife shook her head.
Well, she muttered, it’s a pretty shitty gift.
She stood up off the floor, crawled back into bed, and went to sleep.
So, Episode 01 of The Story of My Death hits the airwaves today. It’s a story told by a foster mom about the triplets she and her husband took into their care and what happened after that. It’s amazing. It’s sad. It’s inspiring. And it ends with one of my favorite Caleb Wilde quotes of the podcast so far:
“As somebody who is listening, I just want to commend you on your bravery, and say that I’m so happy to know there are people like you who exist in the world.”
* * * * *
I got this message from my friend Angry Dave the other day:
I’m guessing I’m not alone in thinking I really don’t want to listen to a podcast about death. So explain to us all why we should.
Great question, Angry Dave. Here are a few reasons you should listen to our deathcast:
1 – There’s too much death denial in our culture. Listening to stories about death can help all of us come to a healthy awareness of our mortality and have a greater appreciation for life.
2 – Many of us (most of us?) don’t know how to exist around people who have had close encounters with death, especially tragic or complicated deaths. By listening to these candid storytellers, you’ll come to a better awareness of the needs of those who are grieving.
3 – The strength exhibited by the storytellers is inspiring.
4 – Why don’t you want to listen? Many of the standard answers to that question are actually reasons you should consider listening.
5 – Caleb Wilde is a funeral director, has a book contract with Harper One, and is a post-grad student at the University of Winchester completing the Death, Religion and Culture program. He’s one of the voices on the podcast and is also one of the most interesting men on the planet.
The metanarrative that we’ve been given is that death is entirely negative. We use war metaphors to describe our personal “battles” with terminal sickness as though we believe death is an enemy that needs to be fought. With the “death as negative” story, it’s made it easier for us to abdicate our responsibilities to the dead and dying over to the “death and dying professionals,” who have been trained to care for, beautify and hide the horrors of it.
But, there’s another narrative about death … that death can be beautiful. Death can allow us to see our own mortality, realize our finitude and pursue a meaningful life. For the dying, death can be a release of a slowly deteriorating body. Times of death can allow us to hug our loved ones, allow us to cry with our family and friends and honor a life well lived. Embracing death can allow us to embrace life. And contemplating our mortality can allow us to pursue vitality. And when we embrace death, maybe we can take back death care.
Yes, death can be bad. Yes, death can be negative. But it can also be beautiful. And that alternate narrative needs to be discussed.
7 – People say a lot of silly or hurtful or ridiculous things to people who have just lost someone. Don’t be that person. In Episode 01, our storyteller shares 23 spiritual cliches to avoid saying to someone who just lost a loved one.
8 – Angry Dave, you look like you could use a good cry.
Six years is no small feat.
Imagine, for example,
the distance the earth travels
in one year:
500 million miles,
give or take.
Which technically means
we have traveled
billions of miles together. I guess
that makes sense because who can
measure the distance traveled
when a friend miscarries or
nearly dies, or buries
a stillborn child,
or starts a business, or has a child,
or watches a parent grow old
right before their eyes? How many billions
of miles does it take to
revive a flagging marriage
or decide to move away or
start over again?
I know a hard year can feel
like at least ten million miles.
Pulling out of depression? A few hundred
million miles. Laughing at good stories?
at least a million miles each.
And we’ve done all these things
together. We’ve traveled those miles,
all while huddled around tables
on cold winter nights with ice
on the panes, or melting together on
summer evenings
swatting mosquitoes and watching
the children dance around the
bonfire. We’ve driven home
barely able to keep our eyes open,
fallen into bed full,
oh, so full.
Can we raise our glasses to friends,
to more stories and food and wine,
and even, if we are brave enough,
to heartaches and disappointments
and failures? Can we toast the things
we hated but that somehow
made us stronger, or wiser, or
more forgiving?
Can we, in other words, raise
our glasses high,
on this almost winter’s night,
to another billion miles,
give or take?
“I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” Woody Allen
A few months ago, or so the story goes, I sent a text to Bryan Allain (podcaster, blogger, humorist, friend) and Caleb Wilde (author, blogger, funeral director, friend).
Let’s start a podcast, I said.
It will be fun, I said.
What’s your idea? one of them asked.
It could be a podcast about death, I said.
*Insert sound of crickets chirping*
Surprisingly, they agreed. We called it The Story of My Death, and today Episode 00 is available. Why “00”? Well, this is kind of an introductory episode where we talk about why we’re doing it, what we hope to accomplish by telling stories about death, and why Caleb has an insatiable hunger (literal, not metaphorical). We also get into why we’re a little nervous about having a podcast in which people tell stories about death.
So, welcome to our podcast! I can’t wait to share the stories we’ve been collecting. Pretty incredible stuff.
Finally, please share this with your friends! Click Share or Tweet at the bottom of this page, or post it on Google+ (whatever that is). Facebook it, email it, pony express it. You guys are awesome.
So get listening. And a huge thanks to Wilde Funeral Home for sponsoring the first three episodes and to the talented Jake Lewis for providing the music.
