Acceptance

A few years ago, I wrote this letter to a very dear friend after the passing of her younger sister Helen. I wrote the letter as an apology for missing the funeral and to show that even though I had been absent from the services I truly cared. In the course of writing it, I thought I had gained a certain understanding of death. I was wrong. Here is that letter…

Dear Margret,

It has been some time now since Helen’s passing. Over the past months I have been thinking about her, you and the meaning of it all. We have known each other for a long time now Margret and I am sure that your knowledge of me as person will make this letter much less surprising to you than it would be to those who think they know me.

First, let me say once again that I am sorry for having missed the services for Helen. I am not really part of the world we grew up in and because of that I am not the most well informed person. I did not hear of her passing and subsequent services until after they were already over. I wish I could have been there for you because you have always been there for me. I hope you don’t feel as if I let you down. Even though, I can assure you that I feel as if I did. I do take solace in knowing that if there is any damage to our relationship we will move past it. That is our relationship, true and honest friendship.

I struggle with many things that life brings. Life and death seem so fickle and so unfair. As we get older and attend the services for those we know and love I am always left trying to answer the age old question, “Why do some people die and while others live?” The intellectual answer is that life and death are random and that our existence is inexorably tied to our own personal destiny. This intellectual reasoning does not remotely satisfy the emotional me.

When someone dies who is advanced in age we are all able to understand. If someone losses their life saving another the value of their death is easy to measure. We are all sad when someone we know and care about engages in behaviors that contribute to their own demise. But even when we understand, in the depth of our sorrow following the loss of someone we care about, we all privately say, “Why my friend, why my mom or dad, why my brother or sister.”

I can’t really explain in an intellectual way why Helen’s death caused me so much thought. I did not know her well and had not seen her in many years. I guess it is because she is your sister and you have always been so dear to me. Whatever the reason, I have really searched my heart and soul to find some meaning in her passing.

I have always had the reputation of being tough, of being fearless. Truth is, I was always more afraid of people thinking I was afraid than the fear I have so often felt. I was always driven by wanting to be perceived as courageous and tough. I know from you, the battle that Helen fought with cancer. I know how bravely she fought for life and ultimately how she was forced to face her own death. I know that she did so with true dignity and courage, private and so honorable. I am not sure I possess that kind of courage. Then one day recently I was thinking about Helen. This thought occurred to me…

Often times, in places all over world, groups of children will gather on a hot day by the side of a pond, river or lake. They will find a steep edge on the shore with a tree that has a big limb that stretches out over the water. Over that limb they will throw a rope and make a swing so they can fly through the air and fall into the cool water. The children are excited as they search for the place to setup their swing. But now the time has come for someone to go first and to show all the others that it is safe to follow. In short, the most courageous of the children will step forward, take a deep breath, take the rope their hands and swing into the unknown. When the child surfaces, unharmed and smiling, the others will fight to be next to swing and most will forget who went first.

I will never forget Helen. She took the rope first. When my time comes it will be just a little easier because Helen showed me it can be done with such courage and dignity. And so there it is...Helen’s death has meaning for us all. She made it easier for the rest of us.  I love you Margret, friends for ever…

When I wrote this letter I had no delusions that my words would ease Margret’s pain. I was not so arrogant as to believe that my feelings on the matter would help assuage her grief. I simply wanted to tell my dear friend that her sister, Helen, had not passed without my notice. Simultaneously and without intent, I thought I had stumbled upon an understanding of death.

Now when I read the letter I cry. I received a phone call one day, not long ago, that my friend Margret had been killed in a car accident. She left behind a husband and three children and all the rest of us who cared so deeply for her. I did not miss the service this time and neither did the other thousand or so people who cared for Margret. I sat alone and off to the side in the huge church almost too angry to cry. I listened to the priest speak of God’s plan and with each bit of twisted reasoning I became more angry and confused. There was no logical or poetic reason for Margret’s death. I wanted to stand up and scream. I did not go to the cemetery, I had controlled my helpless grief in the church but I was not so confident that I could in the open air.

In the weeks following the funeral, I thought back on the letter I had written to Margret about her sister Helen’s death, I found no comfort or relief. It was only through the passage of time that my anger subsided and I came to accept Margret’s premature passing. Death awakens perspective but perspective is not understanding. Yes, it is true that life is fragile and most times, far too short and that there is no denying obvious cold reality that, none of us is getting out of here alive, but these are only descriptions of the nature and inevitability of death. Understanding of death is not possible, there is only acceptance of death and its randomly cruel timing.

Having said all this, I am certain that the next time someone I love dies, I will once again, struggle to understand, hang my head, curse the unfairness of it all, and cry. I also know that, in time, the struggle will end with…acceptance.