When death comes knocking, it often knocks quietly, at first. Then, however quietly the faint tapping at the door might have seemed, there is, at last, a knock at the door that removes the door from the hinges, as we, the bereaved, feel the shock of reality, as if we never saw it coming.
My dad died last week. It was not unexpected. He had suffered from dementia for many years, and the last couple were hardly a quality of life anyone would desire. I remember when I knew something had changed with my dad. Without fail, my dad would call me every week to check in to see how I was doing. He had done so since I left home for college. And I remember how annoying it felt. He seemed to always call when I was in the middle of something or I was waiting for another phone call. (This was before anyone knew who was calling).
As I grew older, I began to appreciate our weekly check-ins. My dad was always interested in what I had going on, interested in how Amanda and our kids were doing. He simply wanted to know how I was and what I was up to. Without realizing it, he was showing me how to be a dad. He wasn’t trying to show me; he was simply being my dad, which impacted my life as a father in ways I may never fully understand.
I meet with people every day who are dying. Many of them have savored life and have accepted that their death will be a holy transition for them. Many are just realizing that they haven’t lived their lives and are holding on with all they’ve got. Some hold onto anger and resentment, others hold onto their past selves, unable to let go of who they thought they were or wanted to be in order to live and experience Life in its fullness.
I’ve walked with many who were dying. Each instance has been a real gift, even the hard ones. Watching my dad decline over the years, and then sitting at his bedside as he breathed his final breaths put me newly in touch with my own death.
The night before my dad died, I sat by his side and found myself singing the words of Julian of Norwich, “All is well. All will be well. All manner of things shall be well.” I know that my dad’s life has changed, not ended. And I became newly aware of how fragile life is. I began to consider how death visits us in subtle ways throughout our lives, knocking quietly to see if we are aware. This visitation is an invitation. The light tapping of death wants to awaken us to Life. Fear, if we let it, will hinder our ability to heed death’s invitation, as we suppress and hide from all that’s keeping us from living.
Don Miguel Ruiz is right, I think, that we’re not really afraid of dying; rather, we’re afraid of living. Living requires an acceptance of uncertainty and the awareness that death comes suddenly, even when we see it far off. When we face our own death, we’re really opening ourselves to Life. We are orienting ourselves to what is life-giving and what enables us to become fully alive.
Sadly, many, if not most, of the people I see each day, even as they knowingly approach their final days, are yet unable to notice and attend to what is life-giving.
St. Benedict reminds that we are to keep our deaths ever before us. We are to notice the quietly knocking of death upon the doors of our lives. If we notice this light tapping, we can nod our head to death, give thanks for the quiet reminder to live and to live fully, so that the final knock is, perhaps, as quiet as the first, just another invitation to live.
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