Suffering, End-of-Life, Death I

 SUFFERING, END-of-LIFE, DEATH I

416. Grief, Forgiveness, Redemption as a Way of Transformation (by Elaine Pryce; 2011)
           About the Author—Elaine Pryce is a British Quaker of 25 years’ exploration; she is attempting to grow into its meaning for her life each day. While in education, she also trained as a mental health professional, specializing in marital & family counseling & therapeutic interventions in grief & loss trauma. Her vocation has her believing in human spirit's strength & capacity of the to find spiritual meaning in life’s most painful experiences.
           Introduction/ A Testimony of Grace—We are social beings who exist on a sometimes precarious, painful, & occasionally wondrous journey of our own. Inherent in the long laboring of loss & grief, in the search for forgiveness, is a fundamental human longing for restoration & wholeness. I have allowed myself to be led through a labyrinth of learnings in my own venturing on the way. I am thankful for the grace of forgiveness.
           I was 16 and with my 4-year old brother; I was distracted for a minute or two while the tumbling waters of a Welsh Valley river swallowed up my brother quickly and quietly. It was not just shock and overwhelming grief, pain, and loss, but also guilt, sitting between every family member, like a grenade threatening to explode. My mother and older brother blamed me. My father buckled like a gravely wounded deer, quietly broken with grief.
           [Around] a sudden storm such as this, there is always before & after, & a long, painful labor of rebuilding, reconstituting, redefining [one’s landscape]. My extended family enfolded me in warmth, care & love, helping me towards salvation; my immediate family never recovered. I found clemency & solace from my grandmother & the chapel near her. A plaque there said: You Must Be Born Again. I couldn’t imagine it possible. There are many ways of coping with grief: fury’s bile; bitter gall; acceptance. I found faith. [I felt instructed] to “take up the very instrument of your execution, the thing that killed you & made a laughingstock of hope, & follow me to your redemption place." Christian faith demands truth; shapes the silence of the dark into the voice of God.
           Intersecting the Eternal—Grief tears away boundaries between life & death, & ruthlessly excavates every falsity of being. Great waves [continually] sweep in & submerge us in the endless, storming sea. Yet great loss is also a gift; the enabling unmasker, transforming our lives forever. Time’s dimension inevitably involves human sorrows, & the cross represents this fact; there is also an eternal dimension. [In taking up his cross], Christ is effectively saying, “Take up your cross, intersect suffering with power & awareness; follow me to a place of overcoming.” These moments of intersection are a healing gift, which demands attention to life, earthly & eternal.
           In Salvador Dali’s Crucifixion, the cross, which should be a symbol of death, becomes instead a representation of its opposite, a symbol of the interrelationship between time and eternity, death and life. Grief can become an inward sacrament, an offering up of human despair to the greater mystery inherent in death. The journey of grief can bestow upon us intense moments of awareness of the eternal dimensions of human experience. These moments depend on a particular kind of openness to present reality. Michael Paffard notes: “Most of us do not attend to these elusive and momentary intersections of the timeless with time, because we do not recognize or cannot hold on to their significance.” Rufus Jones writes: “What we need most just now is to discover or rediscover where God has broken in and manifested the grace by which we can conquer and dispel the darkness.”
           Intersections of Forgiveness/ Reality & Acceptance —When I was pregnant with my 1st son, I was afraid my son wouldn’t like me, that I would hear “It’s all your fault” as soon as he could talk. For me, birthing children was when my truest healing began. If I was loved unconditionally, how could I not love myself? Above all, I learned that the most meaningful absolution is self-absolution. Sometimes eternal blessings arrive disguised; only in hindsight can we honor them. My sister called, saying, “We have to talk about Iestyn’s death.”
           She blamed herself, because she said would take him to the funfair, but went out with friends instead. The experience narrows to our own inner catastrophe. We may not have emotional resources enough to deal with others’ experiences for months or even years. Inspired by my sister’s courage, and after much reflection, I contacted my mother and took her on a visit to one of her favorite places. I encouraged her to reminisce about her life. She and my father had lost their 1st child at a few months of age.
           And then I said, “And then there was Iestyn.” [long silence]. “I always felt that you blamed me. It must have been hard to lose another child.” She suddenly said, “You see, I always blamed myself. I made him go outside to play.” She asked my father to go with him, but my father didn’t. Years later my mother said, “I found it hard to forgive your father … I don’t think I have.” Had she ever forgiven herself? True forgiveness is an act of immense courage. Love itself is an act of endless, compassionate forgiveness. As I began to walk away from my mother for the last time, something made me turn around. My mother was watching me with such kindliness and tenderness in her eyes. There was a look of forgiveness and grace in my mother’s eyes; she died unexpectedly and quietly that night. Perhaps at the last, she recognized my own wounded heart and it moved her.
           Guilt can make us construct our lives as an avoidance of love intimacy, affirmation, achievement (because we don't deserve these things). Self-forgiveness & the ability to forgive others, or indeed to receive forgiveness ourselves, is an inner way of self-reflection & self-knowledge, an openness to healing our wounds with self-kindliness & compassion. Self-forgiveness is impossible without letting go of the tyrannical flagellation of “if only.” All the “if onlys” gather themselves like battalions of remorse, commandeering our lives with guilt. If only we could make it all, deconstruct the event & remake it according to an ideal, safe, & secure world. But what has happened, has happened. In this is the [troublesome] reality, & the only possible resolution is acceptance.
           Traversing the Void—The initial work of arriving at a place of inner acceptance is symbolized by my journeying across a bridge threatening to break. I found myself teaching in a remote part of Papua New Guinea. I had no idea then that I would chart my spiritual odyssey of acceptance of my brother’s death. Sometimes we travel without knowing, fueled only by an inner momentum of the spirit. 1st, there was a foot-clogging trek through mountainous passages and swirling rivers. The bush track opened onto a clearing at the edge of a rocky precipice. Across it a bridge had been constructed from vine and bamboo. This was going to be an unnerving challenge. Experience told my guides the bridge would hold. I had no such experience. For me to cross that bridge was to confront my ultimate fear, to make a radical statement in God and guides.
           The danger, I knew, would be in losing faith at midpoint, of a paralytic standstill. At the critical point in the crossing, with the waters rushing below and my guides urging me on, I decided I would continue to far side of the bridge. Without conscious intention, I had faced a crucial and formative challenge. I had tested both the inner and outer boundaries of my own capabilities. Providence was formulating an unarticulated, but potent question for me. I was saying “Yes” to whoever was asking this question of me.
           I sensed that I was being asked to live a meaningful life, which for me was inseparable from the life of the spirit. It was only now that I fully understood You Must Be Born Again. I learned that the mystery of the outer way is that it calls us to the inner way of transformation. And that this often the most heroic the most challenging journey of all. Joseph Campbell says: “The journey of the hero is that they are to experience death so that they may have the experience of yielding to and resting well in God.” John Bunyan wrote The Pilgrim’s Progress, this inner journey of the soul in a century where religious life was expressed in outer pilgrimage, and the inner mystical pilgrimage of the visionary ecstatic. The journey began with an anguished question: What shall I do? The journey is symbolic, and the desired destination is his true, redeemed, and reclaimed spiritual self. George Fox also discovered experientially the transformational possibilities dormant in his anguish.
           A Hero’s Journey—The grief experience, if only we see it through to acceptance, a harsh but utterly profound way bringing us to a recognition of the source of our being. Here, it is as though life now operates from a different plane of being; values change. The process of a hero embarking on a grueling expedition and finding the “holy grail” of spiritual transformation and the realization of truth and wholeness, is common to general mythology; [the journey] is one of death and resurrection. The Welsh earth goddess Rhiannon is guardian of that hinterland between death and rebirth. The process is one of mystery, a deeply hidden and redemptive restoration, seeded in the very source of suffering. [In case of] my figurative life bridge, transformation happens at the boundary where the unsteady bridge & solid ground meet. There may still be other tests, but the energy of vision is focused upward & ahead, rather than downward and behind. Acceptance and renewal at the source have begun.
           Homecoming—Forgiveness is a step-by-step source experience. It is an act of love & compassion, the offering of our vulnerable, unworthy, & imperfect life to all life. Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son, at its simplest, has a theme of homecoming & human desolation tempered by tenderness. There is also the sense that this act of contrition & compassion is the beginning of a long personal, inward journey for both or all the figures of the painting. Rembrandt reminds us that forgiveness, including self-forgiveness, is a continuing soul-sourced journey, exemplified in the eternal divine-human encounter of spiritual hospitality. [When the painting engages our soul deeply], we aren’t spectators but participants, as much as those in the painting’s shadows.
           From the gospel’s point of view, the end result is a spiritual homecoming, a celebrated return, and an act of “wiping the slate clean.” Henri Nouwen concluded that the father in the painting “is mother as well as father. He touches the son with a masculine and feminine hand … He is indeed God, in whom both manhood and womanhood, fatherhood and motherhood are fully present.” Rembrandt adds another dimension, that of eternal grace intersecting a tableau of human misfortune and fallibility. Buber writes: “The Thou meets me through grace … All real living is meeting.” This sacred encounter can only happen when our real, unencumbered self begins to shift from the blind soil of despair toward the possibility of rebirth and turning around. We discover the sacramental meaning of “meeting” and the sacred meaning of the return, the redemptive homecoming.
           The Stillness, the Silence, the Healing—The idea of sacred meeting is echoed in a single passage of the spiritual writings of 17th century Quaker Isaac Penington: “I have met with my God; I have met with my Savior … I have felt the healings drop upon my soul from under His wings. I have met with true knowledge, the know-ledge of life … I have met with the Seed’s faith … I have met with the true peace … the true rest of the soul.”
           “Yea, though thou canst not believe, yet be not dismayed thereat; thy Advocate … hath faith to give; only do thou sink into … the hidden measure of life … which is in the patience, the stillness, the hope, the waiting, the silence before the Father … and though wilt become deeply acquainted with the nature of God.” Penington recognizes that waiting, silence, and stillness are a means of becoming acquainted with the forgiving, redemptive nature of God. Solitude and silence offer a comforting space to “meet” with the sorrowing self. Penington expresses to his correspondent, in terms of a deeply experiential faith, that sorrow and distress at some point needs to expand in order to give meaning to love and to life, to “let in the faith which openeth the way to life.” [Speaking to the community Britain YM advises]: “Seek to know one another in the things which are eternal, bear the burden of each other’s failings and pray for one another. As we enter … into the joys and sorrows of each other’s lives, ready to give help and receive, our meeting can be a channel for God’s love and forgiveness.”
           Simplicity and Surrender/ Epilogue—When we make our choice to embark on the hero’s journey, we are choosing hope over despair. The hero who returns to the world understands the meaning of courage and integrity. Arvo Pärt retreated from antipathy toward his music into a 6-year period of contemplative silence. He discovered the utter simplicity of a note intently played, and the beauty in the silence between notes. [His music speaks of being] “deeply acquainted with the nature of God.”
           Grief is an irrational process. Yet, given the heroic work of integrating the event into mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual being, its effects are entirely rational. How can I forgive this person for leaving me with such pain and distress?      How can I seek this person’s forgiveness now that he or she is gone?      How can I know that I am forgiven? Victor Frankel, after Auschwitz concluded that it is not for us to question life; it is life that questions us. I reflect now with compassion and wonder on a raw 17-year old girl at the 1st fearsome staging post of the way, [and her journey with its bridges threatening to collapse], and her feeling the healing, and slowly becoming acquainted with the nature of God.”
           Queries: How has your life been shaped by grief, loss, and guilt?      What does it mean to take up your cross, and follow me?      What experience of forgiving and/or being forgiven have you had?      Why is it so hard to forgive yourself or another person?      How have experiences of “waiting, silence, and stillness helped you heal and grow closer to God?      What is the difference between [the pairs] of “triumph and victory,” and “courage and integrity?”
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49. Christ in Catastrophe: an inward record (by Emil Fuchs who found serenity through suffering; 1949)
           Foreword—Emil Fuchs went through great suffering, walked among us & lived among us. He spoke to us as one who has seen Truth & heard it & felt it; even in speaking of disasters his face was serene. Always Truth's stamp was on him; some part of what came to him spilled over . . . to those around him. Emil Fuchs was born in Germany in Beerfelden in 1874. He was a minister in various places including Eisenach. He became a Society of Friends member in 1925. He was dismissed from a teaching job at Kiel & imprisoned. He helped refugees escape; his sons & son-in-law fled Germany. His daughter stayed behind; she killed herself, [leaving behind a 4 year-old son]. Emil Fuchs didn't talk of these things much. When the past came to him, he would sit in silence for hours; in the morning he would be smiling & serene. This writing is a saint & prophet's witness.
           Winter of 1932—During the winter of 1932, the last hard struggle went on in Germany against the rising power of Hitler, against the worship of nation & the religion of arms. The great question was put to us: Will our nation [Germany in 1932] become a stronghold of peace in the center of Europe, or would she open the doors of violence & war again? In that year I was dismissed from my professorship in Kiel & imprisoned. I dreamed my children were killed & a voice asked: What do you want? Shall they save their lives by losing their conscience? & then Christ was in my cell in prison, saying [the Beatitudes]. 1 terrible question torments us when we see the mighty success of [the wrong]: Are you alone right and all others wrong? Are you mad or are they? [People excused Hitler’s methods because of his success]. How high must the tower be from which we have to fall? [Even] in the hour of [his daughter’s] burial the presence of God surged around us.
           [My seeing Christ] might have been imagination. But no imagination can overcome the darkness in which you live when a person you love is handled with cruelty & forced into fits of fear & despair. Only the overpowering awareness of an eternal love whose ways you don't understand, but whose reality you know [can do this]. So strong was this reality that [Jesus’ disciples] could cry out his message. . . without fear hindering them . . . [&] with a power that told other people of the same reality. I wrote of Christ’s gospel & of seeing in it our own suffering. Why did so very many, very clever & orthodox theological thinkers, scholars, pastors & leaders not recognize evil? They were worshipers of nation and lovers of armies first, and Christians afterwards.
           2,000 years ago and today—The gospels are only the reflection of Jesus in the minds of unlettered people, but some of it begins to speak to our mind, to our condition and they challenge our inward being. He challenges us, poor, finite persons that we are, that we may be men, perfect, pure in heart, hungry for goodness, yearning for peace, denying of violence. The kingdom of God shall be built by those who can suffer and forgive and love, and overcome evil with good. In every generation, the challenge comes to those who struggle to grasp a meaning of live, even amid the ugly, greedy, acquisitive world around them. He stands before humankind, asking Will you destroy yourselves, or give yourselves to the grip of God’s power and find thereby a new life in which love, not greed or lust for power is the new dynamic?
           The Iron Yoke—[On the train home from Switzerland in 1947, I saw the faces of a bewildered Germany: offended faces; empty faces; blank faces; faces seeking to forget]. But where is there strength, where real life in forgetting? I would like to say: “Quite near is a man, a woman, a child, a human being suffering as you suffer; . . . be a comrade to them; if you can't, be sympathetic. In that helpful love you will experience the eternal God’s changing power.” [And also:] “We do not have the right to forget the disaster to which we brought the whole world and to which we brought ourselves. We have to bear the iron yoke and . . . bear it with our nation. Out of suffering and scarcity we create fellowship and peace and happiness for our children and grandchildren.”
           Despair—[I met with] young soldiers on leave, civilians and women, once] enthusiastic followers of Hitler [who] no longer have faith in Hitler. [They asked] Can you say anything to us that will give us hope? [I spoke of coming] back from the war. You will find a broken down country. Do you belong to those who in their egotism lament their misery and poverty and seek to find a way out only for themselves, or do you belong to those who see a way of help for others [not involving] outward power and armies? If you do you will have great work to do and your life will have strength and meaning.
           Can there be happiness?—I say that we must find again the strength to enjoy, but not by forgetting what we have lost or what others have lost. [From] the experience of Christ’s presence . . . it came to me that all joy and happiness are great gifts of God, his greetings, showing us something of the goal which will be achieved when love and truth are victorious on earth; all joy is holy. [Take] the sufferings of your neighbors into your life. The real happiness of family, of art and song, of nature and friendship and devotion will grow and become more real until they become that holiness in which they are a part of God’s presence in our lives.
           Love’s great help—[I was left alone with my daughter’s 4 year-old son]. [In] a time of helpless darkness . . . God gave me love for this boy, and I could be happy with him . . . and through him alive to the joy of other people. If we can share other people’s joys and happiness, we find an important link uniting us with them. If we cannot we will be separated from them—even if we do mighty works to help them. When people have to go through really deep sorrow . . . they seem separated from other people by an intense pain that others cannot feel. If love works its great miracle, it reaches through the invisible wall, and sometimes you feel the innermost reality and beauty of joy, the creative power that comes to you out of it. Suffering and joy are in a miraculous way connected with each other in this world of God.
           Can these things be?—How can God be love, when all still happens that has happened in the world of men—and will go on happening in time to come? It is not because God is far away, but because man in his hatred and selfishness does not reach out to him. God asks us to be strong upright people who dare to give happiness and life for him and for his kingdom. God’s love is in this, that God gave us a great goal.
           Christ re-crucified—[The great men of Jesus’ time were not impressed by his life and death]. Christ’s challenge is: How much of God may there have been in this your brother, your sister, whom you killed, starved, denied education and constructive living, or drowned in luxury? We are fighting against our brothers insofar as we hinder them from finding their own constructive life. We stand for them insofar as we stand for the rights of others, for understanding and peace and truth and justice, and insofar as we are prepared to sacrifice our comfort and our privilege for the lives and rights of our brothers.
           Experience & authority—God is too great a mystery for us comprehend. We read the Bible to experience with men and women before us the way God spoke to them. [We do not have to argue about which church or religion is right]. What matters is that people heard the word and tried to live obedient to the light of truth, hope and love in which the living God showed God’s self.
           Very often people say to me, “How can you dare to stand entirely alone? I had to go through many struggles against church authority, tradition and prejudice. No words of the church, no explanations of theologians made my way clear; Christ himself spoke to me [that] his goal is the truth. For many good Christians, faith is so bound up with tradition that they never realize the deep sinfulness of custom. Again and again the churches have been the last to see the injustices of tradition. There are those who see this fact, this need, and are called to seek a new foundation for humankind’s life and work. God gives them new visions, new thoughts, new outlooks—and perhaps the power by which eternal truth overwhelms the inward being of the millions.
           [There are] millions who cannot hear the message. From both sides, [religious and political] the same gospel of despair: in this world you must fight, fight even for the highest purposes; [both those in power and the oppressed accept this gospel]. Both are so strongly dominated by unhappy experiences with other men, so involved in distrust, that they cannot see the human being [or that of God] in their opponent. Jesus did not ask his followers to fight for him. He went to the cross and suffered, certain that suffering love would overcome the world. When will we be ashamed to call Christian those who trust in the sword?
           Is God real? Are we real?—If God is reality, then I know that I will never find a good way in the future, not happiness, not strength, until I find God’s forgiveness and God’s spirit to begin anew. While God is an [inner] belief of the mind, whilst in real life our chief aim is earning money and winning influence and power, we will never overcome the inward weakness that is servility [people-pleasing].
           What does it mean, this trusting in God? I think it means that we are certain that spiritual power is life’s precious foundation. We look back to those whom catastrophe destroyed, who could not live out their lives, and who gave them because they could not submit to that which was against their consciences. They gave their lives because they had heard Christ’s challenge. The living Christ’s challenge is behind catastrophe; it is in it, beside it, through it. By hearing his voice—thus we become real. Eternity is in our lives overcoming fear and hatred, and giving us this great vision: that we are Christ’s fellow workers on earth, united with him in his eternal being.
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340 A Song of Death, our Spiritual Birth: A Quaker Way of Dying (by Lucy Screechfield McIver; 1998)
           About the Author—In 1992 Lucy McIver answered the call to follow a spiritual path & accompanied her spiritual mentor, Teresina Havens, & Teresina's husband (2 years later) during the final days of their deaths. After that, Lucy sought to understand how Quaker faith shapes not only our living but our dying. She spent the '95-'96 school year at Pendle Hill finding answers through writing & artistic expression. She received the Cadbury Scholarship for '96-'97 & took the opportunity to examine the 17th century Quakers' attitudes & experiences of death & dying. With her partner Karen Lundblad, she offers workshops on "Living our faith unto death."
           INTRODUCTION—There are moments when we are pulled out of everyday life into awareness of another realm. That indescribable largeness is a promise that life is much more than the time-limited boundaries of our earthly self. The notes of a wood thrush's liquid melody rise and fall, circling around other sounds, floating on the breeze to pierce my heart, calling me out of deep sleep and offering new life for me to live.
           I have also inwardly listened around the words & feelings of those who are dying, finding the work of God echoing in my heart; I intuitively know that death is spiritual birth. Recently I was given the gift of taking part in the home-birth of my granddaughter. I knew that birth & death were sacred moments, somehow connected into a larger order of reality. As the time approached, whether in birthing or dying, there was expectant waiting with reverence for something much larger than our individual selves. The people in these events supported one another, finding a common ground in the sharing of emotions. [I am using key questions in the headings that follow].
           Could birth and death be the same experience?—We must address the assumption that birth and death are life's metaphysical moments, the definitive transitions between temporal life & the eternal. Failing to approach the unknowns on the other side of birth and death from our current life, we generally limit our perceptions of how full and powerful life can be. An inner sense proclaims that at our birth we become a single manifestation of Divine Largeness receiving the breath of God in our physical life; at death we return our breath to- God, and reunite with the Divine, in a spiritual birth that connects us with eternity. At the moment of my grand-daughter's birth: A mother, a grandmother, a midwife, we all know/ in that moment ... in that stillness ... / an angel has blown Divine Breath/ into the little one ... its soul enters its being .../ riding on the angel's breath. We are gathered together in Divine Largeness with the cry of the baby's 1st breath.
           The process of dying is similar to the labor of birth which frees our physical body that we might re-enter into that primordial indescribable place. Teresina Havens lived her dying labor with joy. [She was inspired by the dying words of] a 17th century Friend, Richard Hubberthorne, and had them read as a statement of her faith: "This night or tomorrow night/ I shall depart hence .../ Do not seek to hold me,/ for it is too strait for me;/ and out of this straitness I must go,/ for I am wound into largeness."
           Visualize God's eternal order as a spiral, as a whirlwind which holds us in its momentum. Birth and death are the moments when our spirit is flung from or pulled back into that large continuum. We are the manifestation of that largeness, and are sometimes aware of it. Robert Jeckel (1667) speaks of this awareness: "No Separation like unto this,/ Soul separated from the Body,/ the Spirit returning to God that gave it,/ and the Body to the Earth from whence it came./ Great has the Loving Kindness of the Lord been unto me ... Elizabeth Gray Vining writes: "Infuse me with Thy spirit so that it is thee I turn to, not the old ropes of habit and thought. Make me poised and ready when the intimation come to go forward eagerly and joyously into [the change], the new phase of life we call death." Dying is a beginning, another birth, a return to Largeness. And we can know this spiritual birth as we daily live our faith. F. Raylton wrote: "Blessed are they who are sincerely concerned to know the new Birth, which is to be born from above, that they may inherit the Kingdom of Heaven ...           Can Death be a time of living more completely?—As we are living, we must turn around & look into the eyes of death; to see there a friend & guide who will lead us into the Light. In moments of great, [yet simple joys of nature], we glimpse God's largeness & forget our singular selves. If we experience daily small losses as opportunities to let self-will go, to accept human frailty, we inwardly grow to live in God's fullness. [We will be tempted to repress rather than accept] human frailty; surrender is the essential process of living fully before God.
           While in prison for public testimony of her faith, and dying there, Elizabeth Braithwait (1684) said: "Do not sorrow for me, I am well,/ content to live or die,/ for God hath blessed [Friends]/ and will bless me,/ and his blessing rests upon me." Also dying in prison, Edward Burrough (1662) said: "Thou hast loved me ... in the Womb,/ and I have loved thee from my cradle,/ from my youth until this day .../ Now my soul and spirit is centered in its own being, with God,/ and this form of person, must return from/ whence it was taken."
           Such acceptance of one's losses is foreign to many 20th century attitudes. How have Quakers lost the belief that giving self-will over to God is the way to receive God's loving arms in passing from temporal to eternal life? How do we balance the intellectual, physical, and spiritual sides of ourselves? The shift of emphasis to the physical and intellectual has given over control and monitoring of birth's and death's natural process to medical practice. Thus, we are separated from our innate ability to experience life's regenerative powers. This became clear to me as I witnessed the dying of my friend, Joseph Havens. [After suffering from Parkinson's for a time, and becoming] unable to give to or receive from others, [he sought and found clearness with a committee to carry out self-starvation. [Some of us] were horrified at the thought. Joe spoke of his conviction that his work was done, and his readiness to face the final spiritual challenge: death.
           Joe focused on the pain of his own hunger & found it connected with global hunger. He inwardly felt his suffering somehow lessen the pain of others lacking food. We were reminded of the reality of hunger & came to feel the suffering of many. Joe would ask us to take mindfulness into our lives & not contribute to, or increase global poverty. Through his dying testimony we came to know that our consumerist culture was the foundation of worldwide poverty. So strong was his love of living that surrendering to death couldn't have been done without strong inner faith. All who knew & lived with Joe in his dying-time of were affected by his witness. Joe & I would watch the leaves float to the ground. [How is the autumn leaf's falling in all its color as important as my life, my surrender of life]? Each is manifesting God's work without value judgment in God's realm.
           I have come to define living into death as an inner labor which lets go of self will into a larger acceptance of divine creation. Living into death is [a state between states], neither in this life or the next; we know the mysteries of creation with a sense of peace and completion. In all the small surrenders and losses is a rehearsal for the physical death that each of us must face. Ruth Fawell writes: "We have to nourish this sense of eternal values all our lives by a daily renewed act of thankful love and [obedience to insights given]." When we let go of self, surrendering to the larger wholeness, we may glimpse the loving grace of God.
           James Nayler writes shortly before his death: "There is a Spirit ... that delights to do no evil, nor to revenge any wrong, but delights to endure all things in hopes ... to outlive all wrath & contention ... all exaltations and cruelty ... Its crown is meekness, its life is everlasting love unfeigned; it takes its kingdom with entreaty, and not with contention ... I have fellowship therein with them who lived in dens and desolate places in the earth; who through death obtained this resurrection and eternal holy life." [How is] the shedding of the unneeded skins of time and earthly understandings the final fruits of life, and a journey into union with God?
           How did the faith of early Friends guide them in the experience of living into death?—I could hear passion of early Friends' faith in the words I read. The octogenarian I talked to wanted to have a conversation to seek clearness as he is facing his own death. What do I know about the Quaker way of dying? Early Quakers died as they lived, practicing their faith. John Camm (1721) witnessed to gifts of accepting his diminishments, including consumption. He wrote: "My outward man daily wastes & moulders down,/ & draws towards his Place & Center,/ but my Inward man Revives/ & Mounts upwards." He sought God's Love believing that as each person let go of self she or he would enter God's abundance. 1756 London YM suggested that earthly matters should be kept in order so that in their time of dying Friends wouldn't be distracted from the holy work of seeking God.
           Margaret Ellis (1731) wrote: "I made it my Concern/ to look at my days-work/ when Night came to lay my head on the pillow,/ & take a view of my Heart,/ least there [were] anything the Lord had Controversy with ..." Hugh Barbour (1988) writes: "The dying person, neither [all] of this world nor joined to the next, could speak to those around with an authority possessed by no ordinary person; the dying individual would preach to them."
           We don't know how to speak of death, to ourselves, each other, or our children, or how to offer comfort & support. [As a modern culture] lacking the collective foundation which prepares us for death, we are left grieving & helpless. How will embracing death openly through dying labor [weave] a circle of faith as we live into that common experience? Early Quakers' expression of faith was a way to face death. Gathered experience was a deep moment of feeling God's work upon them. Mary Moss' (1692) father wrote: She labored [that] .../ they might also come to feel/ & be made sensible of what she witnessed,/ of inward Circumcision in Spirit .../ And the candle/ which was lighted in her/ did shine forth to others;/ so that it is well for [those] left behind."
           Among early Friends, Death was regularly talked about & revered as the pinnacle of one's spiritual journey. Death was usually the finite result of being taken ill. Supernatural presentiments came from dreams, visions, & other mystical experiences. [Our firmer definitions] of natural & supernatural boundaries have prevented us from seeing the very positive quality of the premonition of death & the way it was deeply rooted in daily life. Death making itself known in advance was an absolutely natural phenomenon, even when accompanied by wonders.
           Before his fatal illness, William Penn's son Springette had desired to travel in the ministry with his father. William Penn said: "If thou shouldst not live, I do verily believe thou wilt have the recompense of thy good desires, without the temptations and troubles that would attend if long life were granted thee." Springette replied: "My eye looks another way, where the truest pleasure is ... All is mercy dear father; everything is mercy." The one who was dying would often minister to the family, acknowledging their shared grief, reminding them to trust in God and accept God's will in their dying. John Camm said: "His Glass was run [out];/ The time of his departure was come,/ he was to enter into Everlasting Ease,/ Joy and Rest ..." and "You should not so passionately Sorrow for my Departure;/ This House of Clay must go to its Place;/ this Soul and Spirit is to be gathered up/ to the Lord, to live with him forever/ where we shall meet with Everlasting Joy ..."
           Their death ministry magnified the daily practice of their faith. Today we note that children who face death exhibit an intuitive nature about life. The 17th century accounts of children's dying are mirrors of an innate trust [&] piety. Elizabeth Furley, age 13 (1669), prayed: "I hope I shall never Rebel against thee more,/ but have full Satisfaction in thee/ & in thy Ways .../ let not an unadvised Word/ come out of my Mouth .../ Everlasting Kingdom hast thou shewn me,/ and I hope I shall never forget it/ while I am in this world." Sarah Camm (age 9; 1682) said: "I am neither afraid nor unwilling to die, but freely am given up thereto,/ in the will of God." She believed that the "Great God of Heaven and Earth would keep her and preserve her soul, whatever might become of her body." Her last words were: "I shall have a resting place ... I am well, I am well ... It will be well with .../ all that fear the Lord/ for we shall have everlasting joy in heaven/ ... Oh my dear father/ thou art tender over me ... but it availeth not ... It is the Lord that is my health and physician, and God will give me ease/ and rest everlasting ..."
           Early Friends had a faith in life beyond the temporal, grounded in the individual's relationship with God, freed for individual expression from the boundaries of doctrine. Each individual had to come to their final re-ward in their own way. Their final words were their testimony to the underlying truth of God's Love. Thus early Friends' living faith lifted their time of dying into an exemplary path echoing for Quakers of the 20th century an uplifting promise that death is spiritual birth.
           In Conclusion, The question "[What is] the Quaker way of dying?" can be answered by living our faith as embodied by the founders of our Religious Society of Friends. To live that faith we must believe that we, as a thread in the divine tapestry [of perfect Love] that God is weaving, are essential to the texture and construction of that cloth, co-creating with God, and birthing the perfect realm of Eternal Grace. Living daily with sacred intention into our dying we can find complete and final expression where God's life and our lives are bound together. This is seeking perfection in relationship with God. If we accept this path, we will find the thought of death to be healing. Our fears of immortality will fall away, our lives will become filled with love and peace. We will look forward to letting go, joining the natural flow of life towards Eternal Love.
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292. On Hallowing One’s Diminishments (by John R. Yungblut; 1990)
           About the Author—After serving the Episcopal Church for 20 years, he became a member of the Religious Society of Friends in 1960. He was director of Quaker House, a civil rights and peace program in Atlanta, from 1960-1968. From 1968-1972 he was director of the International Student House in Washington, D.C. He and his wife taught at Pendle Hill. This is his 5th PH pamphlet.
           Introduction—After an attack of diverticulosis, & a 50 mile drive for emergency surgery, [I was left with only 15% of my large intestine]. It hasn’t been a severe handicap. It is extraordinary how the body adjusts to trauma & [makes do] with what remains. 2 years later [I experienced the slow onset of] Parkinson’s disease, a nerve disorder. There is no known cure for this degenerative disease. I was put on the drug Sinemet to retard the onset of symptoms; the dosage necessary has increased over the past half a dozen years. [I also developed arthritis, which made exercise difficult; the exercise to slow the advance of the Parkinson’s aggravated the arthritis].
           The tremor is now in both arms and hands and speech has begun to be affected. There is more unsteadiness in walking; stiffness is increasing. I have requested a “Clearness Committee” to advise me regarding the wisdom of retiring from public appearance before I place too great a burden on my audiences to hear and follow. I went through an inwardly-staged protest: denial; disbelief; anger; rebellion, challenge, despair; depression.
           On Diminishments as Companions—A phrase from Teilhard de Chardin’s Divine Milieu came to my rescue; one I hadn’t intended to store away, but that stayed with me. This is a form of synchronicity in which the unconscious plays a role. The Divine Milieu speaks of [making one’s activities divine], in the 1st half of life, & of “hallowing diminishments in the 2nd half. [Making one’s gifts divine would be to connect them to] the giver of all good things, God. Teilhard writes: “God, in all that is most living & incarnate in Him, isn’t far away. He awaits us every instant in our action, in the moment’s work. He is at the tip of my pen, my spade, my brush, my needle—of my heart & my thought.” I looked up “hallowing” in the dictionary. It was a new & most encouraging idea to me—that one’s diminishments could be “made holy,” “consecrated,” “respected greatly,” even “venerated.”
           I saw that the 1st step for me in learning to “hallow” diminishments was a deep-going, positive acceptance. I must learn to do something creative with it. I practiced imaging diminishments as if they were the gift of companionship for me on my way to the great diminishment, death. Parkinson’s stiffening could be undergone as if it were a kind of “rigor amortis”—a stiffening by love, as part of the process by which I shall ultimately die into God. As companions they can be treated with playfulness and humor.
           [I encouraged a stranger by affirming the wisdom of a decision he made; he encouraged me with a confident prediction of long life. I chuckle every time I think of that moment]. There seems to be something unique in which laughter enables the psyche to let go of the tensions that aggravate pain. [I joke about my constant trembling and discernment of vocal ministry, which the Holy Spirit often indicates by quaking and outer trembling]. When one is trembling all the time, how does one discern the prompting of the Spirit?
           The Diminishments that are like Little Deaths—Teilhard writes: “External ... diminishments are all our bits of ill fortune ... barriers that block our way, the wall that hems us in, the stone which throws us from our path ... invisible microbes that [infect] the body, little words that infects the mind ... Humanly speaking, internal ... diminishments form the blackest residue & the most despairingly useless years of our life ... Natural failings, physical defects, intellectual or moral limitations [ruthlessly limit] the field of our activities, enjoyment, & vision.” These aren’t so much diminishments as deprivations from the start. I can think of nothing as beautiful to witness as the selfless devotion of a family member who has borne the burden of caring for a retarded or severely handicapped family member. Then, there is the marvelous way in which some individuals turns a handicap into an ingenious charm that enhances rather than detracts from the personality. The handicapped individual’s selfless ministry to the afflicted is a boon to all. Teilhard again writes: “[Or we may] impotently standby & watch inner collapse, rebellion, & tyranny [of some disease of our body], & no friendly influence can come to our help.”
           The Diminishment of Bereavement—In the case of natural disasters, the afflicted may be helpless to hallow their diminishments, so consumed are they with survival and emergencies. Hallowing may have to be done by responders bringing relief. Bereavement so caused by sudden accident often seems a greater tragedy than a protracted death through illness of the loved one. Sudden death is [mainly] a diminishment borne by the survivors. There is the “unreality” of the loss; there is grieving and “letting go” to be done.
           If the death was a suicide there is the additional weight of guilt & 2nd-guessing. How might I have prevented this tragedy? What was I blind to? Why did I fail to see the warnings? It is like a sudden, unprepared-for psychic amputation. The relative psyche’s wholeness, enjoyed before, is shattered. Can such a diminishment [as suicide be hallowed]? Yes. 1st, commit the loved one into God's keeping, knowing that with God all things are well. 2nd, embrace forgiveness & live into the forgiven life. 3rd, transfer energy of lost relationship to some [service] of some other need. 4th, from the 1st 3, one becomes sensitive to & available for the suffering of others."
           Bereavement can take the form the death of a dear one, unwilled separation from a partner through divorce or abandonment. In the end it is a matter of “letting go”: of some measure of dependency; & of taking care of the other by entrusting them into God’s keeping. How can one hallow the diminishment from the loss of a loved one? [Forgiveness of the other & of self], asking for strength beyond oneself to forgive one’s self for sins of omission. Another possibility is a “new affection,” possibly a new person, an art form or cause or conversion experience. Hallowing such a diminishment demands both “letting go,” & embracing with enthusiasm something that has been found, or given by grace. Our inner nature abhors a vacuum just as surely Nature herself.
           When the work of mourning has been gone through, the diminishment accepted, one is ready for the renewal of the creative urge. Paul Tournier writes: the greater the grief, the greater the creative energy to which it gives rise ... I can truly say that I have a great grief and that I am a happy man.” For Tournier, writing the book Creative Suffering was a part of his work of mourning; Alan Paton wrote For you Departed & C. S. Lewis wrote A Grief Remembered for the same purpose. For those who have not this gift, the work and the memorial will have to take other forms, like a journal in which the process of imagination can be very therapeutic. Someone could be trusted to listen as you pour out your grief. Nothing can altogether relieve the pain that must be borne in solitude. Tournier used to mediate with his wife; they would share afterward the thoughts that came during meditation. He describes how this practice of 50 years served him in his grief work after her death: “In the past I often skipped my daily meditation, but since my wife’s death, I have not missed a single day—as if my rendezvous with God were also a rendezvous with her.”
           Misfortune is versatile and performs its devastating vivisection on the psyche in the other ways: loss of job; loss of status in one’s vocation; moving from a beloved place. One may be rudely wrenched from the comfort and security of the familiar and plunged into a strange and threatening environment. These occasions too, demand “letting go” and an output of creative energy in creating a new job or a new home in an alien environment. Against such [misfortunes] one would do well to cultivate a certain detachment early in life.
           Some Blessings that Accompany Aging—[In retirement] there is always diminishment one experiences in loss of persona, [along with loss of work]. There is the gift of extra time. Tournier suggests that one should be-gin early to prepare for old age’s onset, to explore undeveloped gifts. Tournier perceives that the old have the real job of “the restoration to our impersonal society of the human warmth, the soul it has lost.” He realized & interpreted for others that there was the dimension of love, poetry & of the spiritual life.” If one is to hallow the diminishment of loss of persona, it is necessary to build a 2nd career or to fill one’s life with interesting, new self-appointed work. Each of us must continue to exercise his or her gifts when the career of our middle years must end.
           Tournier suggests there is a liberation from immediate interests, an opportunity to pursue the deeper interests of the heart and mind. He writes: “One can be successful on into old age through warmheartedness, readiness to welcome all comers, kindness and disinterestedness. One must put fallow skills to use and put as much energy and imagination in this new work as in the pursuit of the previous profession. One finds that one is able, as never before, to find pleasure in the achievements of others, to take vicarious delight in the achievements of others because they feel like one’s own in this spirit which is an experience of kinship with all things.
           [One can pass one’s prime in other things, but for the penitent it is possible to continue to grow as long as one lives. As one grows older, one perceives the love of God for one’s self and the poignancy of the fact that it has been largely unrequited. Penitence with the promise of forgiveness can bring change, love, and obedience. This makes possible a 2nd innocence that carries with it the blessing of higher consciousness. It is well to see that, in struggling against all the diminishments in our life, one is struggling against an angel [like Jacob], and not to let it go until one has received the distinctive blessing of that particular angel. Even if one goes away limping badly, the diminishment will have been hallowed by this blessing.
           Hallowing the Great Diminishment, Death—Teilhard writes: “Death is the sum and consummation of all our diminishments; it is evil itself—purely physical evil and moral evil too. We must overcome death by finding God in it. At the 1st approach of the diminishments, we cannot hope to find God except by loathing what is coming ... and doing our best to avoid it ... At some moment or other we feel the grip of the forces of diminishment, against which we were fighting, gradually gaining victory over the forces of life, [vanquishing] us. God, without sparing us partial or final death, transfigures it by integrating it into a better plan ... God must hollow us out and empty us, if he is to penetrate into us and assimilate us in Him ... Death’s fatal power to decompose and dissolve will be harnessed to the most divine operations of life ... [to] become plenitude and unity with God ...
           Grant that I may willingly consent to this last phase of communion … [when I shall possess You by diminishing in You ... When I suddenly awaken to the fact that I am ill or growing old, ... and when I feel I am losing hold of myself and am absolutely passive ... grant that I know it is you penetrating me and bearing me away ... At one moment the dominant note is constructive human effort, and at another mystical annihilation.” On Easter Day 1955, Teilhard died after attending Mass, a string concert with friends, and in the midst of serving them tea, just as he wished. He was conscious to the last moment unafraid, in communion with God.
           Hallowing Diminishments through the Practice of Contemplative Prayer—[Part of] learning to hallow diminishments is faithful practice of contemplative prayer. Bereavement plunges one into the depths of loneliness; it can be transmuted into solitude. Solitude is a gift of time without distraction, a time to keep company with one’s soul. Here the Holy Spirit can help one harness one’s own cross and carry it without too much strain.
           Contemplation ultimately defies definition, a gentle art unique with the artist. Meditative prayer is different; it engages discursive reason, and takes the form of praise, thanksgiving, confession, intercession and petition. Contemplation is a state of consciousness in which the body has been quieted so that it can be in the service of Spirit. There are a great variety of techniques to attain this 1st step on “the way in” to the altered state of consciousness. Quieting the mind is next. One can repeat a mantra; one can let go of one restless image after another. It is doubtful any act of will can accomplish the final transition into contemplation; cooperation with the Spirit taking us there is necessary. We know that contemplation is the field where lies the pearl of great price; we persist in digging for it, [for even a glimpse of it].
       We must bear in mind that those of the Eastern religions use the word meditation for what we have long designated in the West as contemplation. Eastern meditation and Western contemplation are both described as: darkness, void, nothingness, emptiness. Each attempt to go into the silence, the darkness, involves “letting go.” One lets go of all ongoing life-efforts, of one’s waning gifts and talents, a committing of them into the care of the giver of all good things, and a re-dedication of what creativity remains. Contemplation is a practice in dying; it is a way of knowing one’s self under the aspect of the eternal. “Whoever knows one’s self as part of the All knows one’s self and the All.” When one has finally let go of the diminishment, one is aware that nothing has been lost and all is well. The diminishment has been hallowed.
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432. A Death Chosen, a Life Given (by Hannah Russell; 2015)
           About the Author—Hannah Russell became an attender of Port Townsend Friends Meeting in 2001 & a member in 2003. She still lives in the home she & her husband built in 1999. Hannah Russell looks to writing as a way of finding meaning, balance, & purpose in a tumultuous, chaotic world. She has wrestled with violence concerns since her childhood in wartime London. Hannah is indebted to those who gave time, space, & encouragement to complete the writing of this essay on her husband's chosen death. She attended Pendle Hill in 2014.
           Introduction—My husband died by his own hand on June 24, 2011, after a surprise diagnosis of advanced lymphoma. I found my self searching for understanding, for meaning and context in that experience, which had so shaken my foundation. Only by looking deeply at what I most fear, what is most abhorrent to me, can I move forward spiritually. Karen Armstrong writes: "Language has an inherent inadequacy. There is always something left unsaid; something that remains inexpressible. Our speech makes us conscious of the transcendence that characterizes human experience." There is no way to express adequately the tortuous inner experience of my husband's death, moving beyond its violence and into the realm of acceptance and profound gratitude.
           I returned to the gospels after several years' absence, and I returned to them in a troubled time, a time of intense mourning and painful self-reckoning. I read the gospel as any ordinary person would, looking for any insight or guidance they may offer at this particular time. Its pages are peopled with flawed human beings such as we are ourselves. I began to record my own journey into uncharted territory. I saw that I needed to go beyond my own exploration of the spiritual and psychological dimensions of our story. I must look for the "fruit of the spirit" in some kind of broader action that might sustain others.
           A Journey to Redemption/ A Search for Meaning—12 days after my husband & I had been shaken to our core by the diagnosis of his advanced lymphona, I stood by the garage as he pulled something out of its loft. As I stood there, I saw with awful clarity what he had in mind. I said: "I know what you're going to do. I love you, & I won't stop you." It seemed like the only gift of love I [had left to] give; I called 2 old, trusted friends. Both said they would come at once. It ended with my husband on the garage floor, wrapped in a sleeping bag with a deflated air mattress under him. We 3 women held onto one another, a little circle of shattered souls, & wept.
           [I received little in the way of comfort from any of the professionals responding to his death, not even the funeral parlor's representative]. When the death certificate arrived 2 days later, the violence of the fearful words "suicide" and "gunshot" screamed out at me. They couldn't describe something my beloved had done. [I and his family] inevitably asked the questions of doubts and fears that they themselves were somehow to blame. He and I had discussed his death, but nothing had prepared me for his action.
           In September 2001, propelled by the senseless violence of 9/11/01, I came home to Friends. [My husband's violent death] was an intrusion of violence so direct, so intimate, so imperative of attention that it seemed not to fit into my experience, nor in my ability to understand it in my faith journey's context. In an instant, this trusted relationship seemed to fail each of us in different ways. Life is full of seeming ambiguity & paradox & only by "living into the question" can we begin to glimpse the deeper unity & life-giving hope, which lie beneath.
           Living into the Question—Evelyn Underhill writes: "[The] germ of the same transcendent life, the spring of the amazing energy which enables the great mystic to rise to freedom ... is latent in all of us; an integral part of our humanity." The questions I had to live into were the difficult ones of profound loss, guilt, and betrayal of the paradox of a life taken violently out of respect for the dignity of life itself and out of a loving desire to reduce suffering in the life of another. What is the connection between the reality of violence in our lives and a redeeming love, which can embrace the suffering and transform it?
           My husband, as a "convinced atheist," embraced many Friends testimonies. We lived life simply, and we had no interest in money or status. We engaged in nonviolent resistance together, promoted social justice, and respected the environment. We agreed that in the case of cancer we would not seek treatment for it other than (possibly) surgery. After diagnosis, we refused surgery to determine a treatment we would refuse anyway; the surgery would risk his remaining life in his weakened condition.
           We initiated the lengthy process to use physician aid in dying. [One physician certified soundness of mind, another prescribed medication]. Only family & friends would be present at the patient's time of death. My husband's condition made him fearful there wouldn't be time for him to use this aid. He feared losing everything that made him a person of dignity & worth as he understood it. He began making plans & talking them over with me. How could I sit beside him & discuss ways of ending life? I was reminded of Jesus speaking of the manner of his death to his disciples. They must have experienced the same sense of unreality; Luke's gospel comments that they "didn't understand." What remained was for me to be present in love as he moved toward the end of his life.
           Betrayal and Forgiveness/ The Gift of Love and Life—[I tried and failed to assist him in a chosen death attempt. He overdosed and at one point, unconscious, he struggled to breath when] the remaining oxygen in the bag was exhausted. I removed the bag from his head and his breathing became slow and deep. He woke to find himself temporarily paralyzed. I knew that I had failed him. [I had many questions revolving around betrayal, the last being] did I betray him by not pleading with him to wait? I felt betrayed that my trusted mate had concealed that he had a gun and chose a death that separated us on the issue of nonviolence. Inevitably betrayal brings questions about one's character, the person one trusted, and the relationship itself.
           Judas' betrayal seems a case apart. Despite Judas' profound repentance, there is no forgiveness for him. [The other disciples were forgiven, even though they] had all betrayed Jesus in some way. Was the difference between Judas' betrayal and the other betrayals one of degree or motivation? Was Judas the scapegoat for the disciples' guilt for their betrayals? Perhaps Judas has an essential role to play in the divine plan of redemption, surrendering all that he has—the love and trust of friends, his own reputation—because [Jesus asked him to], and love requires it of him. Then no forgiveness is necessary.
           When my husband did these things, he saw the necessity of them in his inner landscape, saw them as right and in harmony with the inner sense of his own truth. [He did it out of] his love for me, [not wanting to prolong either my suffering or his own]. For my own "loss of courage" and betrayal of him, a wise Friend, Jacob Stone suggested that there are 2 conflicting duties in any moral or ethical decision—duty to self and duty to other. My decision was to choose duty to self in not completing an action which was repugnant to my moral sense. I had been led by guidance from the inner Light. I was then able to forgive myself for my action.
           [There were indications later] that part of his motivation to end his life this way was to save me further distress in caring for him. How does one respond to another person surrendering life partly out of a belief that it will enhance the one you must go on living? What about Jesus' offering of love and life in the violence of the cross? My belief as a Quaker is not in Jesus' "redeeming sacrifice," but rather in the sum of Jesus' whole life, that call me to live in tune with that truth and life as best I can. I feel that my husband and I are one, that I have not lost him so much as gained his spirit, his strength, and his wisdom, that I am living life fully for both of us.
           Abandonment & the Loneliness of Death—For many months after his death, I found I was trying to place myself in his mind, in his heart, as I took each step down the stairs he walked, much like the Catholic Stations of the Cross. Was my husband afraid, as Jesus was? Was there a surrender to the unseen world he couldn't believe in? There must have been courage, the motivation of love, & the dignity of life. His models were the great teachers of nonviolence—Jesus, Gandhi, Martin Luther King & others who followed truth according to the Light within them. Each knew that violent death was a likely result. Some regard Jesus' death, & the death of the Quaker's Mary Dyer as a kind of suicide. I think of the disciples abandoning Jesus, as I think of leaving him in the garage. I needed to leave him to the dignity of his choice, to the way he told his truth. I had been given the grace to surrender my cherished commitment to nonviolence, my beloved husband & my marriage. In the months that followed, there were lovely, comforting signs of my husband's presence, of his love & forgiveness: a blue heron flying low overhead, his presence in the garage & on a walk along a cliff top edge.
           The Great Paradox of Violence—Though it's probably not a choice I would make myself, I believe strongly in the right to choose physician-assisted suicide or even an "unauthorized" self-administered death. Yet the violence of his chosen death felt like an assault to my very being. In American popular culture we don't pay attention to Good Friday. Christian churches focus their gaze on Easter. Liberal Friends seem to have lost completely the language of the cross as well as the shocking realization of it.
           I believe we need to engage with the cross if we are to move into fuller humanity. Redemption is in some mysterious way bound up inextricably with the violence itself. When we encounter this kind of violence, we have to dig deep into ourselves. [We have to experience Good Friday along with Easter]. Anne Liem points out that the divine will expresses itself "in a vast plan of intricate design, interwoven with threads from the dark source, enabling the light to be visible. What appeared in my experience as wrong and painful may be necessary in the divine plan of creation. Violence has a place somehow in the ongoing movement of Love. The divine plan of creation moves slowly and inexorably toward unity, the unity of all things in love.
           Living into the Wider Questions—Now I have in my heart desire to talk with others about understandings of end of life however it may come. How can we bring ourselves to talk about our deepest fears, our wishes and desires about our own dying?      How do we support our partners and friends through this time?      How do we deal honestly with the medicalization of dying, or the choices of physician assisted dying, or of "suicide" at the end of life?      How can we support those dealing with loss through suicide?
           The physician we asked for aid in dying felt betrayed that we had not told her he was "suicidal." I was told to "call the police" the morning of my husband's death. It seemed my husband was guilty of a quasi-crime—taking his life without the proper authorization from the medical, legal, and legislative communities. I was guilty because I had not tried to stop him. I found in telling friends that many completely accepted his choice and expressed admiration for his courage. Our language still reflects the ancient legal stance on suicide: a person "commits" suicide; and one must call the police, even though suicide is not now a crime.
           Are there occasions when dying a lingering and painful death, having lost all sense of meaning and dignity, is the true evil?      Are there motivations which take it from the realm of suicide and into self-sacrifice?      When should a person be stopped from dying by his or her own hand?      How does our faith inform our choices?      As it was for early Friends, isn't death the gateway to transcendent life whether or not we choose another way of dying other than the natural progression of a terminal disease?
           Why is self-starvation, & the refusal to take medication, "acceptable" ways to "commit suicide," but a gunshot or overdose not?      Where do we fail the dying in medical & professional systems?      [Where is the "proper" place for a person to die, hospital or home?      Where do we fail the dying in religious & societal attitudes, which resists discussion of alternatives?      How can we better help surviving family members?
           We have already begun to pathologize grief, even to medicalize it, providing anti-depressants if the mourner grieves "too long" or in "inappropriate ways." But grief has its own calendar [and degrees]. There are so many questions to be resolved, so many turning points, so many layers. Elaine Pryce writes: "Grief is an irrational process ... It defies the processes of a "normal" way of being in the world ... Yet given the heroic work of integrating the event into mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual being, its effects are entirely rational." As Quakers we have barely begun to live into these questions.
           Hallowing the Diminishment of Death by Suicide/ Way Forward—John Yungblut writes: "[If there is] suicide, there is guilt and reliving every moment prior to it, 2nd -guessing what one might have done differently ... It is like a sudden, unprepared-for psychic amputation ... the relative wholeness the psyche enjoyed before is shattered ... Can such a diminishment [as suicide be hallowed]? Yes ... 1st, commit the loved one into God's keeping, knowing that with God all things are well. 2nd, embrace forgiveness and live into the forgiven life ... 3rd, transfer energy of lost relationship to some [service] of some other human need ... 4th, from the 1st 3, one becomes more sensitive to and available for the suffering of others."
           I believe that God speaks to me in many ways & in God' own time, & I can't say that the inner guide may not encourage the relief of my suffering when the time comes. I have clung close to the guide, & have found that I can hallow even the diminishment [of my husband's death]. I believe redemption lies not in the cross, but in the qualities that lead to the cross: love of neighbor, clarity of way, integrity & courage to follow way. I hope to practice these qualities every day, & to learn to live deeply into my own dying with acceptance & joy.
           Queries—If you have lived through an experience which shook your being's foundation, how do you find meaning & strength?      Do you perceive violence as a violent act?      How can Quaker meetings support those living through agonizing experiences?      What are the questions before you now?      How do you understand the paradox of life taken violently so as to respect the dignity of one's life & to reduce the suffering in another's?      How do you believe simplicity, equality, & stewardship testimonies should affect decisions regarding medical care?      How have you sought forgiveness or forgiven when profound betrayal has occurred?      How have you sought to honor a loved one whose death profoundly affected you?      What are your fears, wishes, & desires concerning your dying?      What is "redemption" to you?      What has led to healing & wholeness in your life?
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364. Gift of Days: Report on an Illness (by Mary Chase Morrison; 2003)
           About the Author—Mary C. Morrison leads a retired life at 92 in Kennet Square, PA. Mary devoted her life to family, teaching, & writing. A long time, skillful leader of Gospel Study Groups at Pendle Hill, Mary describes herself as 49% Quaker, 51% Episcopalian. Before this pamphlet she wrote 6 others (#172, #198, #219, #242,#260,#311):1 William Law selections; 1 on reconciliation; 2 on the Gospel; 1 on journaling; 1 on the Spirit.
           ["No, There's More"]—I received a gift of 100 unique days, 100 days of illness, near-death & slow recovery. As appalled as I would be to live them again, [they are still a gift]. In late April 2001 I had a pacemaker put in. At the hospital, I picked up one of those concentrated germs hospitals are known for. I stayed at Cumberland assisted living, Chester County Hospital, & Westmoreland nursing home during the illness. What happens when all the settled truths of a person used to counting on life seem fragile, irrelevant & perhaps unfounded? [This and other "life questions"] needed deeper exploration. I was living at the level of naked experience. My basic inner stance was "Let me out of here!" I talked about "leaving gracefully" with anyone who would listen. I talked about it with God and always got the same answer: "No, there's more"; I didn't want any more.
           [Desire to Die]—It is hard to do full justice to the intensity of my desire, my eagerness to die. I longed to hear my breath make the death rattle. I was angry with God. There wasn't any clear help from God, or Jesus either. I was and am ready to die and I would infinitely prefer dying to some of the helpless alternatives that later life offers. The illness reduced me to a pretty poor excuse for a human being almost as soon as it struck. I wanted to say to my friends: "Be thankful for what your body can still do for you. Think how well and uncomplainingly it still serves you as well as it can and thank it, thank it every day."
           The hospital stay was mostly an in-and-out time of fitful awareness with long gaps of unconsciousness. I had been getting a sleeping pill that put me far enough under that I woke up wondering [where, who, or even what I was. When the nurse picked up my hands and said: "This isn't going to be easy," I suddenly remembered who and where I was, and the routine of looking for a new vein for IV when one collapsed. I asked to be transferred to Westmoreland nursing home and was brought to Room 327, what I thought of as the Dying Room.
           [Difficult Recovery]—The only trouble was [I didn't die]. I was a log lying there or sitting in the chair & expending all my energy on trying breathe. Just a body that insisted on staying alive. The doctor said I was almost recovered. Why wasn't I getting well? [Tremors started and kept me awake at night]. A few quiet times came like gifts from my old life. Then my jaw was affected. The attacks would go on for an hour or more while I tried desperately to keep my lips from being torn to pieces by the jerking motion. I learned the warning signs of an attack & could forestall them. Dr. Soraruf was weaning me as fast as he could from every drug that could be eliminated from my list. I went through emotional [& mental] chaos. I wanted this long hard time to end.
           TIME's Place in my Illness—If any presence filled my days, it was TIME, fully earning those large capital letters. Time had been something that could be managed & manipulated. [In illness] that was no longer true. Individual time began to take on a grand & mythical presence, to become TIME. I imagined that I was now living by geological time. I would continue to lie there until the Grand Canyon was reduced to flat land.
           As the long slow days and nights went by, TIME took on a still more abstract character and moved even further away from human time. The nights were long. I began to realize that the collision of time as we spend it daily, human time, with TIME as it presents itself unadorned, unfilled, [unformatted] in a long succession of empty hours. Human time is a human construct. [We "occupy" our time]. When there is a knife slice across our days, TIME [is exposed], an iron figure, immovable, implacable, eternal, especially between 1 AM and 8 AM.
           I began to think of human beings as creatures uniquely equipped with the ability to fill time with things to do, [so that stony TIME] goes unnoticed. George Fox wrote: "And I went down along the vault and there sat a woman in white looking at time how it passed away." I began to think that we humans have somehow developed a wrong relationship to time. Is meditation an attempt to correct our wrong relationship with time? I never managed to develop the talent for living in the NOW. In those nighttime hours TIME said to me, "You must change your life." One Sunday I watched the hour of meeting for worship pass [ever so slowly] on the clock in my room. Such immobility! Such a stern presence! I must have slept sometimes without knowing it.
           [Surrounded by Love]—All through that miserable period something outside of me surrounded and sustained me—love. [Family, especially grandchildren, came from East Coast, West Coast and London]. They would distract, cajole, feed, and hold]. One particularly bad day, when my mind wasn't working and I was sure I was dying right then, my daughter and 2 grandchildren took turns lying in bed and holding me. I couldn't believe the outpouring that came my way; I settled into it almost unconsciously and it did me good. This time affected those around me as well. My daughter Helen said: "It was a terrible time and a wonderful time, and we were closer than we had ever been or ever could be at any other kind of time, touching one another, hugging easily and often, having conversation about subjects we would never ordinarily discuss. As much as I could feel anything beyond my own misery, I felt myself floating on a sea of love. I could not see how I could possibly be lovable. I knew at some level that I was being a general nuisance, not only to the world around me, but also to myself. The stern words of TIME came to me again, "You must change your life."
           [Tear in the Fabric of Forever—One day Mary brought a book that I "ought to read": Let Evening Come, my own book, but written by someone who now seemed a stranger to me. The book fell open to a page where I had pasted a poem by Marty Johnson: [excerpt] "Get over it There is a tear in the fabric/ of forever and its just the way it is ... Consider this a wake-up/ call and live your gift of days with joy./ Walk the edge where the air is thin and clear,/ where fear can take you further. It's just/ another country. Chin up. Step through the door. Each breath in is a miracle. Each breath out is a letting go." The poem seemed to be asking me questions that intrigued me and suggesting to me possibilities that I had not yet begun to understand.
           Mary handed me a pencil and paper and said: "You'd better practice writing while I'm gone." I hadn't even though about writing. I positioned the pencil over the paper. Nothing happened. Trying harder, I managed an illegible, cramped scratching. It was a revelation that my body would have to go through a laborious project of relearning body skills. I would start the learning with 10 days of doing without my usual 2 life-supports.
           Memories & longings crowded me throughout the long Westmoreland period of illness. One picture brought by Friends was the familiar view from the gardens down toward the lake. In my mind I would take a walk up the lane that angled off to the left just beyond the picture frame's edge. I was grieving. I wanted to do it again, & again, forever; no amount of self-talk could wean me from that wish. Almost everything that came to mind carried that same sting in its tail. [I imagined myself as a happy spirit, free to] go back to all the places I loved.
           What came to mind most was daily routine: waking up after a pleasant night's sleep; getting effortlessly out of bed; shower; making bed; orange juice & sitting by the window; eating breakfast & viewing the square. It never failed to give joy & pain. What if it wasn't the great moments but the little ones that held the secret of joy? I wasn't up to applying this insight to the experiences I was having at Westmoreland. We humans look for high experiences to bring us joy, while in reality it is hidden in the ordinary moments of every ordinary day.
           Slowly, I began to get better. [Progress came from trying] to help the days pass more quickly. I eventually reached the rank of struggling kindergartner in my writing. The physical therapy director had visited and gone away a couple of times, until I was ready. He came again and taught me exercises that I could do in bed. Soon I was standing up and going to PT daily for endurance, agility and strength, making daily progress even I could see. I astonished Mary and Helen by standing unaided and walking a step or two over to greet them; Helen took my social rehabilitation in hand, and I began to feel socially presentable and operational again at last, something I hadn't expected to be ever again. I was told I would be back in my apartment in a month. "I can't possibly believe you," I said. The nurses and caregivers in charge of the thing, the object I had been now emerged as friends. My "occupational therapy" was practicing simple household tasks under supervision.
           2 weeks later I came back to live in my apartment after 12 weeks absence. My daily routine had taken on a magical, miracle quality conferred by all my longing for it while I was lying helpless in bed. I "received my gift of days with joy." The doctor thought I had been depressed. I thought it was too much to expect people under 60 can understand I wasn't depressed, simply realistic. I can't look forward to regained vigor & activity, only more & more unpredictable decline. When you've gone a long way down the dying path, you want to continue to the end. When your body isn't ready to die yet & nobody is going to help you or let you die, you decide to put full energy into getting as well as you can. Ambulatory Cumberland & Westmorland people & I were wandering around our community's Annual Fair, looking at everything. [We live in] constant distraction, constant separation from immediate experience that is somehow a product of the way we live now. Our thoughts go forward into the future & back into the past. We seek to be "distracted from distraction by distraction" (T. S. Eliot).
           I was forced down to a level where thinking takes over & feeds on itself hour after hour without the relief of distractions, but unable to drop further down to experience the living present moment. Now I'm trying to learn with all of me what it means to live in the present. [I had successes mixed with sliding back] into the habit of enjoyment insulated from present reality by my wandering mind. How can I hang onto an inner change to living in the present as old habits of human life focused on past & future return? 

           My mind seldom gives me a dull moment. The problem is that I have never had any control over it. It does what it wants, remembers what it wants to remember. It is normally friendly but not at all biddable or prompt in helping me when I need help; my mind became my worst enemy when I was sick. I read about stilling the mind and I tried it, but my mind would never cooperate. Somehow I must find my way beyond my spinning mind. Maybe I couldn't pay strict attention to the present moment all the time, or even most of the time, but when I could do it, life became suddenly new promising. Maybe the death I desire is that of [my] separate spinning mind as it merges into the intense life of the present moment. My work is to be ready to receive it when it comes as I would a visit from an old friend.
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239. Growing old: A View from Within (by Norma Jacob; 1981) 

           About the Author—Born & educated in England, Norma Jacob came to Pendle Hill with her family in 1940. They served with the child feeding work of English & American Friends, but were expelled by Franco's forces. Now retired from social work, she lives at Kendal-at-Longwood, an older people community in Kennett Square, PA. Recently she edited Quaker Roots, a history of early Friends in southern Chester County. 

           Should I give up driving the car?      Norma Jacob 

           [Introduction]/ The 1st Discovery—What is it really like to Grow Old? My own professional specialization was in a different field [from the elderly], but I sympathized with those who felt unwanted and left aside. Naturally, I thought, too, about the approach of my own old age, [and planned for it]. The actual experience of aging, what the books can't tell, this was closed to me. On my 65th birthday I left my job and took off for my chosen place of retirement. I was eager to find out about being old while I was still vigorous enough in mind and body to make the most of it. What have I done thus far with the gift given to me, for which I must answer?      Where do I go from here?      What spiritual and material resources are available to me? 

           Growing old is liberation. No longer must one be in one's appointed place from 9 to 5, 5 days a week. I continued to do very much the same kind of work without being paid, in a different place, far away [from my old place of work], in space and emotion. Freedom from specific responsibilities is a very fine thing; [there were still those general responsibilities from] being a member of the human race. As a volunteer worker I realized that I had assumed an obligation, and I tried to honor it. Liberation from having to behave well was another joy. I could picket, dress outlandishly, and not worry about setting a good example. And liberation from the constant pressure to enhance rewards. I could take a part time job, but this was a free choice. 

           For those women now approaching old age, the reality faced by our mothers & grandmothers was of a circumscribed existence; they bore & raised children, & when the children were grown & independent, they didn't feel liberated. They felt forsakened & lost; often their lives had no other reason; they hadn't the freedom to develop their interests & talents & reap the rewards. For the women of my generation, it was possible to have mother-hood, grandmother-hood, & careers, perhaps not at the same time, but within a reasonable span of years. 

           For a man today there is very often only the one role, that of chief working member of the household. If something has to give, in most cases it cannot be the job, which comes to an inexorable end on a date set without any regard to his ability to continue or his emotional needs. How can we bring to men the same kind of freedom which women are now beginning to enjoy? The liberated men are the fortunate ones who managed not to get entirely swallowed up by the demands placed upon them. I am sure this question is an aspect of aging which deserves a great deal more attention than our society is giving it today. 

            Another Side to the Coin—To set against increased freedom is the undoubted fact that growing old means losses which cannot be avoided, though surprisingly many of them can be postponed. "Diminishments" is a good name for a wide variety of small and large ways in which the body and mind no longer function as they have done so competently for so many years. [For instance], suddenly, after years of familiarity, there is an empty space where [an oft-used word] should be. Response to this varies with different individuals, from despair to wry amusement. The words are not gone forever; they reappear quickly when the immediate need for them is past. Some mnemonic key will often allow important words to be retrieved. A rather more frightening thing has been happening lately: putting something down and being unable to find it 5 minutes later. 

           Growing old is slowing down. This can be infuriating, but the psychologists tell us that at 65 or later we are able to do almost everything we could do at 14, & equally well; it just takes more time. Older people in college find they do better than the regular college generation. The Elderhostel movement, with its weeklong residential courses in the summer has gained great popularity. Physical slowing down is often hard to accept. The mind runs ahead of the body & feels a furious resentment at times against muscles which don't answer immediately to directives from the brain. [I took up bike riding again after allowing muscles] to get in trim again. What if there is a wheelchair in my future? It may take a little while to get the hang of it but then [you'll be] off and away. 

           It is undeniable that losing a degree of mobility, seeing or hearing less well, things like that do mean less of things one used to enjoy. Deliberately to give up a large world for one with limited horizons seems a sin against life. When there is no choice, this smaller world can be one that is enriched from within by people who draw upon resources they scarcely knew they possessed. These diminishments are one good reason for choosing to live among older people. Our contemporaries [can be with us with much less strain than young people].                         Growing old is realizing reluctantly that some changes are permanent. These pills—I am not going to become independent of them, but must remember to take one a day for as long as I live. My friend can walk again, but she will always need the cane. [How long does stuff I need to replace need to last]? The idea of ending, of non-renewal, is a very hard one to accept; the do-it-yourself books fail to offer any help here. Not to accept that we can bring back the past, be young again, grow back hair is un-American. Most of us try most of the time to live by the reality we know rather than by the myth which is constantly being sold to us.
           Growing old is making things last longer instead of encouraging them to wear out. I'm not about to discard something which has been with me for a number of years. There are memories which these possessions carry with them. [Losing them means losing the memories that go with them]. The outcome of this entirely natural feeling is apt to be a cluttered life. When one moves into a smaller place there are questions: What do I keep, throw away, sell, or pass along? A great deal of secret unhappiness is hidden inside these questions, from which there is no escape. I have moved so many times—from country to country, then from state to state—that only a few small objects have stayed with me from the more distant past. The only thing that really hurt was having to abandon a library, twice: in England and in Spain, where we had to burn the "liberal" ones and bury the rest.

           [1]—Growing old is loss & relinquishment. Some losses can be seen coming & prepared for to a certain extent. Others are fierce & cruel, like the death of a child or a much-loved younger friend, [which count as outrageous & "should not happen]." How to bear it is what must be learned. Relinquishments are more subtle, ranging from colors no longer going with our changed complexion, to long walks no longer done with comfort, to giving up the vanity of high heels. Should I give up driving the car? To many aging Americans, the car is part of the self-image. To lose it is to become a different person, and inevitably a lesser one. Those who play instruments come gradually to realize that stiffening fingers or shorter wind mean more and more distortions of the melody. Fine needlework is harder now that needles tiresomely resist threading. The energy in fighting against diminishment is wasted, & personal energy is more & more a precious commodity. 

           Being Alone—Growing older means the fear of loneliness. It is inevitable, because friends, family and lovers die or drift away. If we are open to them, we make new friends; willingness is all. People do form very solid and deep relationships in their older years. Marriage between those who have raised families and retired from careers happen more and more often these days. Pets are, of course, a wonderful source of companionship, if new people seem a little too much like hard work. People who have not been great readers probably do not realize what joy is to be gained from books. Many can remember literary families in which they have felt really at home. There are people in the TV world, too with whom many have come to feel a real intimacy. 

           A Catalog of Riches—A great deal of what is believed about growing old simply isn't so. In a survey contrasting what people as a whole saw as the condition of the aging in our society, and what older people said about it, the disparity between the 2 pictures was enormous. Old people don't see themselves at all as younger people see them. The American public has a distorted and unrealistic negative view of what it is like to grow old. 

           [1-2]—Growing old is emotion recollected in tranquility. [Many of the bad things never happened, and the stupidities were often met with good-natured tolerance]. The good things keep a kind of freshness which does not tarnish with age. They can be flashed on the screen of the mind in their primary colors with many of the shadows removed. [As for having less drive in old age], does this really matter in a world where achievers abound. Let them struggle, it's their turn and they are eager to do it, as eager as we once were, before we found out how little we really achieved over the longer perspective of life. 

           Another very pleasant aspect of growing old is discovering the younger generation. What interesting companions they turn out to be, now that they are adults and responsible for their own lives. And they can see a situation from a different angle and can throw a new and often startling light on what had seemed settled and dull. [I have managed to avoid becoming] financially or emotionally dependent upon my children. Is there some way of making as sure as possible that the burden of caring for me doesn't fall on my children, who have their own children to care for, which must take precedence? Visits from children are wonderful; aside from these, let us by all means lead our separate lives. 

           [3-5]—Growing old is coming to rely on the kindness of strangers. Young people are almost unfailingly kind, even when they think that it was our ineptitude which landed us in this mess. Older people are kind to one another, offering what comfort they can when an older stranger is in distress. Most touching of all is the way older friends cherish one another. Patience is boundless; nothing is too difficult or too tiresome. This to me is a real manifestations of love. Growing old is having that sense of the transience of everything beautiful. Some things may not be transient, but the eye that sees them, our eye will be gone. We cherish beauty now that we are old. 

           Another unexpected blessing in old age is learning to live in the present. [Up until old age], we are all accustomed to take refuge in either the future or the past. This is a harmless enough delusion provided that a life-style is not built upon it. [For the old], there is no longer very much prospect of a future which will bring us what we have not been able to achieve so far. Perhaps the more we care about those for whom the present hardly exists, the more we care about what is being lost to them for not being willing to open the doors and let today in. We too are almost surely doing the same thing in more subtle ways. It is difficult to see this clearly when the problem is one's own. 

           When I have managed to free myself from total dependence on the standards of excellence set for me in my formative years, what riches have I discovered. I try to remind myself that the present grows organically out of the past. If something was good then, its results will be good now. [The simplistic "past good, present horrible,"] explanation for the uncomfortable and unfamiliar can't be allowed to cloud our perception of what we must live with and learn to rejoice in if we are to avoid despair. Politically, the choices we made, the policies we supported, the men we elected to carry out those policies—these built the present, and if there is blame to be distributed, we cannot avoid our share. It is reassuring to see how many older people do actually take the trouble to vote and try in this way to influence events.

           It is only by deliberately paying our attention and our primary allegiance to eternity that we can prevent time from turning our lives into a pointless or diabolic foolery. The divine Ground is a timeless reality.      Aldous Huxley

           [6-7]—Growing old is making an opening for new things. Most aging people are so preoccupied with not losing the good things they now have that they never get a glimpse of other potentialities. Creativity can indeed be ageless; look at painters who did some of their finest work in old age, or at orchestra conductors who seem to be untouched by the passage of time. Weaving, making something satisfying out of time, patience and yarns of different colors, is an experience I have had now and I can have it again; playing a recorder in a small group [is a similar experience for me]. 

           Growing old is being lazy and enjoying it. One may manage not watching the clock only for short periods. Perhaps we need to practice sometimes saying " I don't want to—I'm too old." I believe it was a wise choice to live among people my age or older. When I was 65, I spent many stimulating evenings talking with intelligent and thoughtful people in their 90's. [This wide range in ages] for group housing of old people—this is what we need. I have had occasion to observe the kind of change produced in many older people, a smoothing of some of the firmer lines of body and spirit, a fading of the need to drive others and be self-driven, so that other traits, like a delicious sense of humor are free to appear. Sometimes one is the unwilling witness of the gradual fading of a loved personality. But what was once known can never be lost. 

           The Unanswered Question/ A Place to Stand?—We weren't wrong to welcome the coming of old age as an opportunity, an opening into the potential of a new life. There are real losses & handicaps to be met. But the good & the less-good are intermixed. Many of the good things were quite unexpected from the perspective of one's 30's, 40's, & 50's. But, what comes next? For us, death's coming is a reality to which we must all adjust our thinking & emotions. Aldous Huxley wrote: "It is only by deliberately paying our attention & our primary allegiance to eternity that we can prevent time from turning our lives into a pointless or diabolic foolery. The divine Ground is a timeless reality." [Time has a useful purpose], but no real existence, in fact it is something from which one can & must escape. [The idea of going back in time to fix things] had its appeal, but closer inspection seemed to tell us that it simply wouldn't work. Time is a one-way street, leading eventually to a predictable end. 

           For older people, the end of life gains increasing imminence with each year. Everybody arrives at the possibility of hope in his or her own way. [I have early memory of words from the Epistle of James that ring true]: "Every good thing, & every perfect thing, is from above, & cometh down from the father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning." Lately, this kind of knowledge of reality comes to me more and more through music. I have acquired many pieces of music which [serve this function, in particular] Beethoven's Quartet in C# minor, opus 131. These musical things tell one something about the nature of man and God which it is hard for me to imagine in any other way. 

           In religion, through beautiful music, inspired words & [sincere] ritual, contact was made with what they felt to be ultimate truth. A Friends Meeting can serve this purpose too, though it achieves its success mostly through the interaction of like minds brought together in one worship. What we learn alone, we deepen & widen & enrich through sharing with others in some form of religious observance. Offers of escape from death with a promise of everlasting life has never been anything in which I could take comfort. Nothing should be everlasting—not a flower, not a symphony, not a human life. [Everlasting isn't appealing to me]. To escape bondage from ongoing time is we need & must hope for. What friends have of each other is outside time & can't be lost. 

           Growing old makes it impossible any more for us to turn away from seeking something to believe in. What was far away & indefinite has become close & increasingly real. We who are aging can never know what is coming next, though we must wonder more & more. We may have intimations, flashes of seeing in a dark wood. Time must have a stop; whatever lies over & around mortal time isn't to be feared. I will have to be content.
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