Today Would Have Been

Today would have been my parents’ 63^rd anniversary. Today is 8 years since my Mom died, which was 8 years after my Dad did.  I called her that morning to wish her happy anniversary, and the policeman who found her answered the phone.  I called home the day my father died, and as I was praying with my sister, who was holding my mom’s hand, who was holding my dad’s, as he gave his last breath.

Since then, and since other vigils at other bedsides, it has become clear that we do not “take our final breath” as we often say.  We give it. Our last act is exhaling; it is the loss of inhaling that marks our passing.  It is a blessing, I think, to be that way.  Because if our final act were taking, we would have something we hold onto, and death, if anything, is letting go.

I confess that I am afraid of death. I preach the resurrection and I believe in eternal life, but I am afraid. I am afraid of what it will feel like. I am afraid of not knowing what will come after it. I am afraid of no longer being “me”.  I know that perfect love casts out fear, and I trust that this perfect love is always looking for me, and finding me.

I am writing this in my studio space at the Loft in downtown Minneapolis.  In a little while, I will walk a couple blocks to the Mississippi River, and sit by the memorial to those who suffered, and those who survived the collapse of the 35W bridge five years ago this past August 1.  I will run my hand over my daughter Talia’s name, and bless myself with the water that clings to my fingers.  It will not change the physical world, but I trust it will lift my spirit.

Talia is a tall and beautiful girl of 12 now, and most of the trauma of that day has dissipated for us.  Or perhaps it has been buried deep inside.  I know that when I stand by the river that almost took my child, I feel such a deep gratitude. Friedrich Nietzsche, of all people, said: “The essence of all beautiful art, all great art, is gratitude.”  That’s the kind of artist I want to be.

What does this have to do with justice?  I think we have an incredible deficit of gratitude in this country.  We have been blessed with such beautiful land, such diversity of creatures, such a weaving of cultures. But we always seem to want to take more.  It doesn’t help that most of our politics, and almost all of our commercial messages are based on fear.  Fear that we aren’t enough; fear that the other side is going to take away our rights, our guns, our stuff, our power.

I’ve worked in the inner city over half my life, and one thing I am grateful for is the faith that people who suffer poverty often have—a faith that is demonstrated in generosity and gratitude.  You would think that people who have more would be more grateful and less fearful, but it is often the opposite.  The people who seem to be the most anxious and fearful are not the ones who don’t have, but the ones who do.  That goes for communities, cities, churches, in workplaces and in our nation as a whole. 

If we really want justice for all, maybe we need to be grateful more often.  Maybe we need to give more breath than take it.  Maybe we need to let go, even of the praise we might get for letting go.

Today is my day off, and there is always a desire in me to fill it up with “things I have to do.”  Oh perfect love, protect me from that!  I just want to be grateful today, breathe in and breathe out, give and receive.

One of the poets I am so grateful for—one of two who got me to start writing poetry—was Theodore Roethke. The end of his poem “The Waking” fits the power for this day: 

I wake to sleep and take my waking slow,

I learn by going where I have to go.I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.   

Be justice.  Be beauty.

Patrick