"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever."
~ from the 23rd Psalm
Someone asked me the other day if I could remember my "first" death? Over the years of serving as a pastor and chaplain, I have encountered death more times than I can even remember at this point.
The first person that I remember having "died," was my great grandfather, Clarence DeAtley. I remember the phone ringing at our home as we were up, getting ready for the day, and then my dad suddenly grabbing his coat and running out the door. I have a clear picture in my mind of my dad's face that morning. I hadn't thought about it until this moment, but my dad's face in my memory is much younger. It is a reminder that often moments, or life milestones, can seem to be encapsulated in our memory for a lifetime.
I can still see his car, pulling out from the alley beside our home, and the tailpipe of his car, blowing out gray smoke into the crisp, Indiana March air. I can still see my mom's face as she told me, "Papaw DeAtley died."
I still am not sure if I really understood what that meant. I loved my Papaw DeAtley, even though he was a much "different man," than the man he had been most of his life. His mind, confused, and so much of what he had been, replaced by a man who would sometimes get angry, but would welcome a great grandson to sit and share time with him while eating a fudge ice cream bar.
I remembered a man that would sit at the small table in a farmhouse kitchen that still contained the wood stove that once was used for cooking, and the 1940's gas stove that had replaced it. My great grandmother, turning on the broiler, and making toast with a little sorghum and butter. Occasionally, she would fix a mixture of cinnamon and sugar, adding to the flavor of the toast.
Hot tea would be steeping on the blue counter, and I would watch as she would add teaspoon after teaspoon of sugar, and then gently stir the mixture just prior to taking a sip. I can still remember watching her do the same thing with her iced tea, and watching as the granules of sugar would float in the mixture as she would take a drink.
I would watch as "Papaw DeAtley," would take the silverware from his place setting, and with the cloth napkin provided, would wipe down each utensil that he was about to use. To this day, I don't remember asking why he did that? I just remember that it was part of the routine at each meal.
"Papaw DeAtley died."
I was six months away from turning 7 years old. I had no idea really of what this meant, but that the news upset my both my mom and my dad.
The next thing I do remember is pulling into Myers Mortuary in Lebanon, IN, and my mom struggling with my coat. It was a cold day, and like to many late winters in Central and Northern Indiana, it is not unusual for there to be cold rain and sometimes ice.
The funeral home seemed dark to me. Heavy fabric draped windows, and organ music played over speakers that were sometimes filled with static, could be heard. I looked at the tall lamps that were in the front of the room next to what looked to be a shiny box, surrounded by flowers. I remember the ceiling, lined with small tiles that were plain white, illuminated by the lamps that seemed to make the room look pink with their light.
The first person I saw was my "Mamaw Williams," and I noticed the white handkerchief with a little embroidered blue flower with yellow dots, raised to her face, where she wiped tear after tear. She took my hand, and I could feel the moisture from the handkerchief, touching my hand, as I tried to pull away.
I felt the hands of someone that I do not remember, picking me up. The person was behind me, but I clearly remember seeing "Papaw DeAtley" laying in the box. He looked like he was sleeping, but he wasn't bothered by any of the people that were talking as they stood beside the box. I remember thinking, "Why is he asleep? I would love for him to ask for ice cream about now."
I'm unsure why I ended up sitting next to my Mamaw Williams as people sat down for the service. My head rested on her lap, and I can still feel how her belly shook as she cried. "You know he was my dad," she said to me.
I didn't realize then, but do now, that she was wanting to make sure that I knew this connection. It's hard to believe that it has been 16 years now since Mamaw Williams died, laying in another box, in the same room at Myers.
To this day I can still associate the name of the mortuary, with the smell of aged carpet, fragrant lilies, pink lighting, and the sound of a shoe shine machine that sat near the entrance, where men would step up, turn on a switch, and it would buff away any dirt or scratches.
I can still see Papaw DeAtley, Mamaw Williams, and a few other relatives and friends that have died over the years in that room that has changed over the years, but the location and reason for gathering has been the same. It is the place in my memory where death becomes a reality.
I am drawn to these memories as I encounter patient families when one of my hospice patients die. Sometimes, as I see young children encountering their first death and trying to understand, that six-year-old inner child in me, still wishes that the person would sit up and ask for ice cream.
Death is as much a part of life and breathing. It is the stark reality that none of us can escape. In my Christian faith, I understand that death is the gate that opens as we live fully into eternity. For me, I try to remind myself that I am already part of that eternity, that my death will be a mark on a timeline that has no ending, and that those early childhood memories will be only a memory, forgotten, as I encounter those who died before me.
I am not afraid to die, but like all of us, if truthful, the journey to that death will sometimes leave me anxious as I consider the path, and ask God to help me when it comes. Perhaps that is a reflection to be written for another day. In the meantime...
Stay in God's grip!
G. Todd Williams (c) 2021
Pre-order Todd's new book, "Remember Me When..." at Chalice Press and receive a 20 percent discount.
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law.
~ Galatians 5:22-23
I'm not sure that I realized "exactly," what was happening the day that I sat down with one of my hospice patients and she began asking me about "ways to talk," to her grandchildren about dying and death. I'm still not exactly sure what I was thinking a year later, with an envelop full of notes and a few pages with pictures, when I sat down with my friend, Ciara, who listened and said, "Sure," when I asked if she would be willing to take everything I gave her and to illustrate a few pages to give me an idea of what this "might look like," if I were to pursue this project as a book.
Two years later, after that first visit with my patient, Ciara and I are about to find that this "project of the heart," is about to be released as the first Children's book for a publishing company that is over 100 years old and one that has never published a book for children in their long history.
As I write my blog today, I realize that it has been over a month since I have taken the time to sit down and "actually," write about what has been happening. Behind the scenes there have been meetings with the Editor, a marketing team, and numerous texts between Ciara and myself.
I never knew that there was a scientifically created font that allows people with dyslexia to be able to read "more at ease," but I do now, as Ciara in her educational journey at SCAD in Savannah has learned, and is implementing it in our book.
As the marketing team met with us, we discovered that there is now a group of people who have fallen in love with our book, and how this will be such a wonderful "conversation starter," for grandparents everywhere for years to come.
For a moment, I stop writing and I think about the afternoon that I walked into Tony Carrol's office, a therapist who agreed to see a me, even though I didn't have insurance, but was suffering from a bought of depression that seemed to have paralyzed my life. I am overwhelmed by a sense of gratitude, and wish that he were alive to see the lasting results. I remember Tony asking me to take a photo of something that brought me, "joy," into his office so that we could talk about what it was about the picture that seemed to speak to me.
I remember laughing as I took that first picture in. It was a photo of a bumper sticker I had seen on a car that said, "Save the Ta Ta's!" It was a bumper sticker about breast cancer awareness. While it was childish in nature, it was a photo that began to free me from my depression and started a journey that now has brought me to this place, as I moved from just taking a photo, to also writing about what it was that made me "feel" joy.
I think for any of us, finding our path in the world today, takes more than just looking for joy. Projects of our heart takes courage, and whether we realize it or not, someone to also believe in what we are doing.
I knew that Ciara was a gifted artist, but to "see" how she has brought this project to life is a "new joy," that I'm grateful to be experiencing.
I am reminded that God always seems to have something more for us. More joy. More opportunities. More, more, more...
Stay in God's grip!
G. Todd Williams (c) 2021
Rev. G. Todd Williams is the author of the book, "Remember Me When..." and is a former hospice chaplain and pastor.