It was a Holy Saturday unlike any other.
My parents had arrived into Dayton, Ohio on Tuesday. They were finally able to return to their previous home of 47 years, to visit with Brian and me for Easter, to see old friends. It’s also been opportunity for them to really learn that their new home in Portland Oregon really has become their home. My dad commented on how he is missing his new friends, which surprised him. [Emotional connection always seems to surprise him, for some reason—an important observation for what is to come.] After spending one night with us, they spent two nights with good friends of theirs up in Troy area before returning back to our home Friday afternoon. Good Friday. When Dad got the news from Aunt Betty up in Cleveland that his brother, my Uncle Karl, was fading fast. Hospice was being brought in…
I learned of this as my mother came downstairs, walking up to me for a hug. A longish hug for her, I noticed curious. “Karl is fading fast,” she said. I nodded, saying the expected “I’m so sorry…” I was beginning to shift my internal expectations, feeling an anxiety arise in me for how a trip up to Cleveland would stretch Brian and me over a very busy holy Tridium already in process. Mom’s next words startled me. “I am not going to let Betty drag us up there.” I think I hid my startlement well enough, staying present with where she was, what was unfolding for us as a whole… Now I'm reminded how little we know the stories that drive resistances in others--often stories that need honoring before they can be released. I felt a sadness for my mom and me at that moment, as some story clearly had her. My father was on various phone conversations upstairs so we waited quietly to learn more what would be required or invited.
As he came down the stairs, we gathered in the living room. He lowered himself into the side sofa and relayed the clinical news, what he knew about Karl’s dying—could be soon, could be weeks, he said. “I don’t see any reason to drive up to Cleveland,” he finally said. “He’s not very responsive. Not sure he’d recognize us. Once there, we’d be in a vigil posture, waiting for him to die. I don’t see any reason for us to go…”
It took me several moments to fully digest what he was saying. Here again, some story I could not perceive or understand had him. I could not fathom his words, his choice. We were getting ready to go to our Good Friday service. I had a leadership role in this service, both reading and then a ritual singing of Were You There? while walking the Christ candle out of the sanctuary. But the mixture of emotion was conflicted and simmering in me. I simply could not believe my father was not going to say good-bye to his older brother, when circumstance (Providence?) had brought him so close as to make it possible.
I said nothing to them, basically. I’m well versed now in honoring the decisions of others in my family that I cannot understand, stomach. It’s important to me to honor such difference, even if everything in my own being cries out for a different outcome or choice. So I simmered, and off we went to Good Friday services. The pastoral staff gathered in the office before service, and with the privacy there, I blew off a little steam about my parents’ choice and how I felt about it. But we prayed to begin, and then all went well. Afterward, back at home, we had a nice glass of wine with cheese and conversation. “No more news from Cleveland,” was all my dad said.
Holy Saturday morning dawned, and I awoke with the expectation of going to CrossFit, as is my practice, being home for my folks and brunch by 9 a.m. I sat on the couch with my cup of coffee, 6:30 a.m. or so, and Brian came out to join me. He had an air of intention about him, so I waited expectantly…
“There’s one question we did not ask yesterday afternoon, when pressing your dad about his needs and choices to come,” he began. Looking at me, he continued, “What do you need in this? What are you feeling, desiring to do?” I shook my head and said, “No, I did ask my father that question, directly!” Brian smiled and gently redirected, “No, I’m talking about you. Your needs, desires.” I startled, becoming aware for the first time that I was also an actor in this family drama unfolding. I could finally perceive what he was asking me. I startled as the tears arose in me immediately.
I paused, checking in with myself, my belly, my body. I let the tears and sadness arise in full. I’m not close with my uncle Karl, but few of us are. He’s a difficult man to know, to love. Angry. Assertive and cantankerous. But also the best hugger of the family. A good heart, fierce for tending the pain in the world. [picture below is Grandma Ruth and young Karl, before any brothers arrived.] He’s the eldest of the Brothers, who have been a fundamental force in my own life, formation. I dread the passing of this generation, knowing I will grieve so very much I don’t know how to name. As I began to thaw being the actor I could be, I became incredibly, sensately aware of the convergence of things, so puzzled that Mom and Dad seemed to disregard: their proximity, which Easter with us made possible; Holy Saturday; Karl’s fast decline while they were here, on this sacred weekend. I looked at Brian with surprise, “Oh my…I need to go say good-bye. I need to see him today.” The convergence could not be coincidental.
I texted my dad, knowing he was awake but upstairs at the computer. He came downstairs and we got him a cup of coffee. I told him my desire to respect his and mom’s decision, but that Brian had instigated an awareness in me just now. “I need to drive up to Cleveland today to say good-bye to Uncle Karl. I need to see him before he dies. I cannot ignore the convergence of your visit, Holy Saturday, and Karl’s fast decline. I need to go to Cleveland to see him today.” Tears sprung up in my father’s eyes as he looked at me, his face inscrutable. Then I probably pushed it a little too far to goad the point, “You and Mom can decide to stay or come with me, but I need to go to Cleveland.” He smiled, and a huge energy or sigh seemed to release within him.
“Oh my….” He began. A whole vista seemed to open up before him, within him, freeing him to make the journey to say good-bye to his brother that until then had been closed off for him. He spoke as he processed aloud for a while, eventually confessing, “I could not see any other option other than arriving there and being forced to wait in vigil until he died, perhaps for days, weeks. There was no sense in that to me. But to arrive, to be with him for an hour, and to drive back home to be with you and Brian for Easter just feels so right. I don’t know why I couldn’t imagine that until now…” He looked at me, tears still present. “As my mother said to me, so I say to you, ‘I’m so glad we had you.’ And I should probably go tell your mother that we’re going to Cleveland today.” We laughed a little, knowing she was still sleeping.
I fixed a high protein breakfast for us all to eat before I jumped in the shower and we prepared to depart. I texted my cousin Megan that we were coming, but to let Dad tell her mom. Dad called Betty to let her know. I picked up three envelopes of old pictures that another cousin, Winnie, had sent to me, so Mom and Dad could see them all. The above picture of Grandma Ruth and Karl that Dad had never seen before was in that collection. Brian cleaned out his car and prepared it with water bottles and extra face-masks in case those were required. It was never really named aloud, but we all knew he was staying behind with Nala, to be at home, to prepare for his responsibilities impending on Easter Sundy. Mom, Dad and I were on our way by 8:30 a.m., a light rain and extra coffee at hand.
The drive up to Cleveland—ostensibly 3.5 hours—was easy and uncomplicated. I was driving and so chose a mix I had not listened to in years on the car media via my iPhone. Breathing Together I had named it. Dad was communicating with various family members on his phone, and my mother sat in the back seat, comfortable and present. Various tunes came on that made me smile, raise my eyebrows, enjoy in the presence of my folks.
These ‘mixes’ on my phone are records of my prayer life over the years. This one was from a time when my folks asked for no contact from/with me, so pained and threatened they were by my feminine awakening journey. “I Walk with the Goddess” came on, and I sang it at the top of my lungs while my parents smiled at me, my clear enjoyment of this music they did not know. And this time, were not afraid of. Each next tune became a curiosity to me, as I could not remember until they came on what tune was next, what tunes were on the mix.
Breath, by Sweet Honey in the Rock, came on toward the end of the mix. I startled, with tears rising. It’s a song celebrating the prayers of the ancestors, the pact with the living that the dead have. It’s an African teaching in song about how the dead are not under the earth, but all around us. Dad’s ears perked up and he Googled to get the lyrics. He asked to hear that one again, so I restarted the tune, after he got Mom’s phone to show the lyrics. We listened to the song together, aware we were being spoken to.
At this point, I took the rosary that I had made last summer from around my neck. It’s glass pearl-beads, with tiger-eye hearts and beads, made “for my Grandma Ruth.” I had done some ancestral healing work last summer, within the context of my Fire&Water eldering journey, in which some of the obstacles I’ve felt between me and even the memory of Grandma Ruth faded away in a fire. When I’m aware of Grandma Ruth, I pray with this rosary. I gave it to Dad to hold for a bit, while I told him that work, that association. Mom held it next before giving it back to me. I honored that it might sound like gibberish to them, but they could understand it in terms of the Communion of Saints, if they wanted to…but I attributed the nudges in me, my spirit, to this ancestral wisdom she was knocking into them, through me, into me, through holy convergence. We laughed, a little shy about something that even she in her own lifetime would never have dared believe.
Dad asked for me to make a copy of all the music we listened to that day. He got how this music was sacred to me, finally. Not because of the words, per se, but how the words dance with the energy of Life, if you’re willing to pay attention to the dance. I felt seen and heard by my dad in a way I had not before. Deep gratitude for that gift…
We arrived about noon at the MacGregor facility where Karl was staying, meeting my cousin Gretchen in the parking lot. With tears in her eyes, she approached for a welcome hug. I held her a bit while she cried. She hugged both Mom and Dad, and thanked us profusely for coming. We walked into the facility and entered into Karl’s room. Betty was not there yet, so we approached the bedside and simply said our hello’s. His eyes were open but he was unresponsive, verbally. Gretchen sat on his bed, and Dad and I pulled up chairs to be within reach of Karl’s hands. We began to chat, catching up with one another as family does.
Dad and Gretchen went out in the hallway to talk clinical details, of a sort, so I held my uncle’s hand, smiling. Mom sat on the other side of the bed, also smiling. It seemed time for me to sing what I had envisioned when Brian first asked me the question that morning. “Fly, fly little butterfly fly, to the calling of your spirit. Fly free and purposefully, and know you are held in Love.” It’s a little chant that Red Tent sisters would sing whenever anyone was facing a transition—a kid going to college, a woman getting ready to leave a job or home, a person preparing to die… As my voice filled the room, Uncle Karl’s eyes lit up and he looked at me, wide-eyed and smiling. Our eyes locked for a time before his eyes closed, and he seemed to sink back into himself, resting in the gentle, simple music. When the song ended for the final time, I leaned over to my uncle and whispered to him my love. “And it’s okay to go now, Uncle,” I assured him, uncertain if he could hear. “It’s okay to leave us… We’ll see you on the other side.”
My cousin Megan arrived next, followed shortly by her mother, Betty. We gathered around Karl’s bed, all of us, with Betty up close, holding his hand. She spoke to him and he responded verbally to her. “I was waiting for you to come…” he said with a smile. He seemed more present now, recognizing each of us in turn by name. It warmed me that her face and voice brought him more present to all of us.
We shared some stories like we would, being family with him woven into the speakings. A pause seemed to open for a little more singing, now that all the family could hear, receive. Standing at the end of the bed, I sang the Butterfly song, then an “Honoring Those Who Came Before Us” chant, also from Kelliana, Red Tent. Then all of us sang together the table-blessing the family has sung for generations. Three times, to fully inhabit the words, the music, and sound of our voices bathing him all around. His eyes lit up again, with a big smile. Then his eyes began to close, almost resting back within himself, knowing he was loved, home, going Home.
Tears were dabbed, hands were held, and then hugs were shared before my folks and I began our withdrawal from the space. Dad leaned over his elder brother, placing his hand on his shoulder, then kissing his forehead. “Good-bye Karl,” he said softly. I approached my uncle, kissed him on the forehead, and told him I loved him. I repeated, more softly so not to be readily audible to others, “See you on the other side. It’s okay to leave us…” As we were walking out to the car, we almost passed by Larry and Hal, both wearing the obligatory masks. I didn’t even recognize them at first, until it dawned on me I did know those eyes and foreheads! We laughed and I apologized, admitting it had been over four years since I’d seen Hal, so adult and solid. Finally, Mom, Dad and I approached the car, easing back into it for the long drive home.
We actually toured a little bit of their old home spaces close to Case Western, but found our way back to the southward highway. The sun was shining by now, but we were a bit teary and in awe for a while before we noticed. We listened to more music on the way home, though our capacity for any more sacred input was gone. We stopped for gas in Columbus, and picked up a loaf of Brian’s favorite bread from The Great Harvest Bread Company. We arrived back home about 5:30 p.m., to a nearly-prepared steak dinner with asparagus, mushrooms, red wine. Before sitting down to dinner, we landed in the living room. Brian made us cocktails, and while we didn’t have the ingredients for Karl’s cosmopolitan drink of choice, his second choice was apparently a side-car, which we could do.
I stepped outside with Nala after dinner, ostensibly for her evening constitutional, but so I could call my friend Lisa. I expected to leave a message on her voicemail, unsure even what I would say, but she picked up the call. We said hello and then she just held some silent space for me while I cried. I was exhausted. I had some alcohol in my system, which lowered the defenses I’d held most the day. I said whatever I needed to say, and she grieved with me, celebrated with me, laughed and honored this thin space we’d been in for so long…
Given the rich foods and wine, I didn’t sleep well that night. I arose on Easter morning to write the reflection I always do on Easter mornings…What does the resurrection mean anyway?...and the family stirred for coffee, the traditional sweets (cinnamon rolls this time), and preparations for church. I made us a protein breakfast, and got to church for choir rehearsal. The service was beautiful. Brian’s sermon was stunning. The music was nourishing, with descants abounding.
I was in my car after the service when I got the call from my dad.
“Uncle Karl died at 11:20 a.m. this morning.”
It was a Holy Saturday unlike any other… The generational transitions have begun…in such grace, such mystery, together.
