When I was a
freshman in college, I had a calculus class scheduled every day, Monday through
Friday, at 8 am, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I had an educational psychology
class scheduled at 9 am. Calculus ended
at 8:50. My educational psychology class was on the other side of campus,
literally a mile away. The fastest I had
ever run a mile was eleven minutes—when I was in 7th grade.
Needless to
say, I didn’t make it to my psychology class on time—ever.
It was
probably three weeks or so into the semester when I noticed I hadn’t seen my
psychology professor in a while.
Every time I
showed up at class—late—there was someone else, a guest speaker, or lecturer, a
TA or someone, leading class.
Finally, one
day, I turned to the girl sitting next to me and asked, “Where’s Dr. Smith?”
The girl
didn’t even look at me. She was too busy
taking notes. “Oh, he died,” she said.
And that was
it. I never got any more of the story
than that.
Author Anne
Lamott refers to death as the “Big Eraser” and the longer I live and the more
death I see, I can’t think of a better description. No matter who the person is who died—someone
close to you, a mother, a father, a child, or someone not so close—the cashier
you see twice a week when you do your shopping, the professor whose class
you’re always late to, death leaves an awkward imbalance in your world.
One minute
someone is there and the next, they are not.
It is a loss
incomparable to anything else.
For example,
tomorrow, a friend of mine is moving to North Carolina with her family. I am going to miss her terribly. I am going to miss spoiling my godson. I am going to miss (selfishly, I might add)
knowing that there is someone I can count on for anything, at any time, just
around the corner.
But she’s
still here. She still exists. She is still just a phone call away.
Death—and
forgive me for stating the obvious—is different. We all know this and ultimately it is that
sense of loss, that knowledge in your soul that the world is suddenly less than
it was the day before, that the world is now missing a piece that can never be
filled again—it is that loss which can sometimes seem unbearable.
This past
week the “Big Eraser” struck twice in my life, taking first my friend and
former colleague, Scott, who was diagnosed in April with pancreatic cancer, but
lived long enough to give away his daughter in marriage a few weeks ago, and
then a few days later, my friend Fay, who was my grandmother’s age, and one of
the smartest women I have ever known.
Fay’s death was expected for a while now. And with pancreatic cancer, Scott’s death was
both expected and far too sudden. But
now there is both a Fay-shaped hole in my life and a Scott-shaped hole, neither
of which can ever be filled.
If I could
share only one story about Fay, it would be this: Every Sunday, years ago, when
she was healthy, Fay would come to me during the Passing of the Peace and say,
“Everyone needs ten hugs a day.” And
then she would hug me twice, to give me a head start on the day.
And if I
could only share one story about Scott it would be this: The time he discovered
a fish in a puddle at the school where we both taught. How does a fish get in a puddle? Well, this particular fish was set to be an
osprey’s breakfast, until it was dropped and lost. Scott gathered his students all around the
puddle to pose for a picture. He was so
excited. That was Scott, joyful like a
little boy, and infectious with that joy.
Death
affects us so much, even the deaths of people we may have had minimal contact
with, because all people, everywhere, are capable of making huge impacts on our
lives, even with something as simple as a hug or a laugh.
Recently, in
an article for the Florida Today, spotlighting Scott, his career and his battle
with cancer, Scott estimated that he had taught nearly ten thousand students.
Think about
that number for a moment.
Ten
thousand.
Now think
about this and think about your own impact on the world, because Scott didn’t
just touch the lives of the ten thousand students he taught, but those
students, because of him, impacted the lives of others and those people
impacted the lives of even more, and suddenly you can see how someone like
Scott, how someone like you or me, can change the world.
Scott wasn’t
perfect. One day when I walked out of
the cafeteria carrying two food trays, he smiled and asked me if I was eating
for two. Never, never ask a woman if
she’s eating for two, unless you know for a fact that she’s carrying
octuplets.
But we don’t
have to be perfect to do God’s work in this world.
And make no
mistake, Scott and Fay—all of us—were and are tasked with doing God’s work
every day.
Today’s
reading from Isaiah should sound familiar to you—it’s one that is commonly read
during funeral and burial and memorial services. It was—and there are no coincidences with
God—the reading assigned for today and it came at a time when I needed it most.
The Bible is
many things, but never forget that it is ultimately a book of healing and comfort.
Listen to
the words of Isaiah one more time.
Isaiah 25:6-9
On this
mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples
a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged
wines,
of rich food filled with marrow, of
well-aged wines strained clear.
And he will
destroy on this mountain
the shroud that is cast over all peoples,
the sheet that is spread over all nations;
he will swallow up death forever.
Then the
Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces,
and the disgrace of his people he will take
away from all the earth,
for the Lord has spoken.
It will be
said on that day,
Lo, this is our God; we have waited for
him, so that he might save us.
This is the Lord for whom we have waited;
let us be glad and rejoice in his
salvation.
Amen.
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