Canada Saga 2011 - September 18

"All beauty of this world is wet with the dew of tears."(Theodor Haecker)

 "How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."
    (Carol Sobieski and Thomas Meehan, Annie)

We've been saying for the last few weeks that there is a definite difference in the air and the temperatures, but this afternoon, the winds are downright blustery, the skies are overcast, and dampness has set in. It was the perfect time to take down the hanging  baskets, unpot the potted plants, and carry them all to the compost pile while Michael put away the patio furniture. The rituals that bring so much joy to us in June now reverse themselves and bring the bittersweet awareness that the summer's memories are now stored as well.

Originally we were planning on staying until the first week of October, to witness first hand the changing of the colors, the shortening days and the harvest farmers' markets. We had postponed gatherings with friends, some of our usual hiking adventures and the side trips that just didn't happen during those busier summer months. Now we are closing up our home early, and planning on returning to Louisiana for the funeral of our brother-in-law, Jake, husband of Michael's sister, Tippy. 

The story is one we hear so often: we thought we would have more time with him. In July, he was admitted to Hospice care, after a two year struggle with cancer. But he had rallied in the last few weeks, with medicines that finally gave him some quality of life. Michael visited with him just before our return to Canada, and felt that he had at least another Thanksgiving and Christmas to be with his family. Tippy tells us that in the end, he was surrounded by those who love him, and that his passing was very peaceful. "He showed us how to do it."

As I walked in a cool drizzle this morning along the waterfront, praying my gratitude and good-byes for the summer, for the beauty, for the new friends and renewed relationships with old ones, I noticed that the tops of the mountains were hidden beneath heavy grey clouds. If I were walking with someone new to the area, I could describe to them the beauty of Mount Arrowsmith behind us, and the details and intricacies of the coastal mountains far to our East, framed as they are by the islands in between. None of this was visible now, and it would be a leap of faith for someone who has never seen and experienced the sense of beauty all around us to trust and believe that it exists.

A beautiful card I found recently said that sometimes our only available transportation is a leap of faith. But there are days when leaps are not available. We are left with just taking the next step. Our way isn't blazing with the brilliance of enlightenment, but with a simple candle at our feet, promising only that the next step along the way would be lit.

My sister-and-brother-in-law have walked that walk for almost 2 years now. They have continued stepping into the next circle of light through the medical diagnoses, tests, treatments, prayer, with family and friends beside them, with tears, sharing as the two of them have for over half a century, a life that never promised ease or  certitude, only that they would be together "for better or for worse, in sickness and in health." No wonder there are fewer and fewer couples today ready to make that commitment to vows that convey a lifetime of faith, in each other and in the greatness of that Which holds us all.

My only argument with those vows is the finality of "til death do us part." When we've lived and loved deeply through the joys and traumas, the shocks and peaks, the tears and laughter of such a union, death cannot part us. This is not a sentimental, squishy take to ease the very real pain of grieving. It's an acknowledgment that grief is authentic. We are suddenly looking "through a glass darkly," as St. Paul said, missing our face to face seeing. But death does not 'part' us, because nothing can part or segment Love.  James Dillet Freeman, in his beautiful poem, The Travellor, says that "...love knows it cannot lose its own; The love that, looking through the shadows sees, That You and he and I are ever One!"  It is all inclusive, and we see its beauty, 'wet with the dew of tears.'

We are so blessed to have a place up here, with such good friends that make it so hard to say goodbye. Goodbyes are blessings in themselves.  They prepare us for the eventuality that life is impermanent, and they make us ever more present to this moment, to the joys and miracles that exist side-by-side in our fragile and beautiful world. We take so much of the beauty and the wonder for granted; we take so many of our loved ones, and the moments we have to spend on them, for granted.

When we received word of Jake's imminent passing, we were with our beautiful friends in Victoria who have known deep grief firsthand, with the passing of their lovely 16 year old daughter years ago. This friend is now a nurse to new mothers, encouraging them in loving and nurturing their own daughters and sons. She gives effortlessly. Her husband is a retired doctor, but more importantly, a compassionate and gracious presence, who bowed his head and said a beautiful  prayer for Michael, for Tippy, for the family and the times they faced ahead, with the love of their faith and their God. Tonight, as I'm writing this, I see that they've sent a prayer by Cardinal Newman who says that shadows lengthen, the evening comes, the busy world is hushed and our work is done. "Then in God's mercy, may we have safe lodging, and a holy rest, and peace at last."

It is a joy to have so much love to say goodbye to. It is an extravagant grace to take for granted the many blessings we have been given, and to know we fly home to embrace and give thanks for the ones we have at  hand.

YAY GOD