Will we ever completely fathom the miracle that is the body? Do we comprehend the extent of wonders that happen just beneath our skin by systems we cannot see but trust are there? Unless we go underwater, we breathe with little notice; unless we put two fingers to our neck to catch a quickening pulse, we rarely sense our heart beating. We don’t will our body to live– it just does.
And yet.
The mortal body is a blessed concoction: heaps of bones, clusters of cells, lengths of muscles, rivers of blood. And while amazing in it’s capacity, still a physical limitation. We will not take it with us. We don’t get to keep it. Though divinely conceived, the body is just flesh and eventually it will betray each of us, and we will die.
In Brittney’s beautiful essay, Barcelona, Venezuela: 1998, she tells a tale few have experienced up close. If you haven’t read it, you should; if you have, read it again. I can’t stop reading it, for it’s heartbreaking and breathtaking and visceral, filled with so much truth, so much pain, so much color. And so much life.
Even as we rejoice in the physicality of the body, we accept that mortality is wrought with pain. To produce life, we bleed and ache and suffer, to die (in some instances) is perhaps the same. When loved ones lay across the thinly veiled chasm between two worlds and we witness the process of dying, the natural tendency is to want to “beg with all the faith we have” for life. And we want to bless with the continued marriage of mortal body and spirit even when we “know… there is nothing left.” I’ve been told that sometimes people don’t die until the living give them permission to. We want to have faith in a possibility– a hope for restored health– but we do have faith in the certainty of eternal life as well, and by so doing accept the fact that the mortal body must die to live eternally. As such, even if hesitantly at first, we need to learn faith in our ability to be brave, our ability to let things go.
Brittney attempted faith in the flesh even as she knew the flesh had been defeated and the dear boy lay on the mortal cusp, just moments from his own sort of “living, breathable air” of heaven. She let go of her companion’s hand and gifted her the air outside, that was easy. What courage was required to offer the same for the dying?
That essay really haunted me when I first read it. To see the power invading forces can wreak on our bodies reminds me that while I am strong and powerful in my own right, I live in delicate balance with the world around me.
It truly is a gift from God that we can function and be so capable in these bodies, fighting off the incapacitating microbes around us. I think the larger meaning of this for me is that I truly am a giant. I am strong and capable in the eyes of God while the forces trying to bring me down are miniscule in comparison. If I am not ever vigilant, however, in tending to both my body and my spirit, those small forces will have ever greater power to act upon me. I do recognize that there are physical forces that we cannot or do not have power to stop, such as cancer and many many diseases, but on the scale with which I am speaking, I need to remember my strength to overcome.
I wanted to also ask this:
How do we reconcile the gift of life with the (oft times) gift of death? How do we know that while tragic and sad, there will be peace, and “living, breathable air” in our afterlife? How does that help?
Brooke, what a great analysis of Brittney’s essay.
I love this essay. It’s one of the most powerful pieces I have ever read. And you nailed it: there is tragedy here and “living, breathable air” after.
It’s surreal to be with someone who is dying. I spent the afternoon my mother-in-law died sitting at her side with my father-in-law. She had open, staring eyes, but she was not with us. Instead she kept trying to get out of bed, over and over. She wanted to go somewhere.
We missed her dying; we had left for dinner, and she passed away while we were gone. We arrived just after she had died, and the hospital room felt holy and empty at the same time.
I don’t know that I answer your questions, but I know that witnessing her dying made me confront her mortality and also my own. We are full of life and the potential for death together.
I had the distinct priviledge of being present for the deaths of both of my grandparents. Both deaths were indeed a blessing and ended much suffering. My sweet grandmother only passed once we placed the telephone receiver to her ear so she could hear a tender farewell from her only son.
My grandfather lay unconscious for several hours, unresponsive. All at once, he squoze his granddaughters hand as if to say, “I am ready” or “Your grandmother has come for me”. My uncle administsered to him and he died moments later.
Both experiences were beautiful, the air thick with the spirit. I am grateful for having witnessed these moments as they strenghtened me and in a large sense were joyous as I knew my beloved grandparents were indeed experiencing “living, breathable air”.
Being at the bedside of a dying grandparent is a tender moment. I have been there myself. Those “sweet” deaths of fully-aged people are indeed beatiful births into immortality.
But this article confronts “ugly” death. Death of a young person, death of wasting, death that could have been prevented. Death that is just plain gross. We all want to die like grandmothers in beds surrounded by loved ones. But the truth isn’t always like that. I like the writer’s treatment of a hard subject.
Having had a young family member die by falling, I can say that “ugly” death is a totally different thing. The writer speaks of “innocence lost”, and that’s a good way to put it. Soldiers, EMT’s, Rwandans, and lots of regular people come to mind.
When we break a special dish, vase or glass item, we pick up the peices and throw them away. “Its only a thing” we say wistfully. I was forced to understand that bodies, too are only “things” and can be broken in terrible, irreprable ways.
I used to be a person who didn’t know death. Then I became a person who only knew “nice” deaths. Now I am a person who has had a little taste of “ugly” death. I hope not to become any more educated on the subject. But here we are in mortality, with so much coursework still to do. Its good we know what we know.
Texasgal, what a good point. This is a story about ugly death. It’s part of life too.
Texasgal, very insightful, and right on. Ugly deaths definitely test our faith more than sweet deaths. I believe that those of us who experience ugly deaths probably receive more tender mercies from the Lord and are held in his arms for just a bit longer.
This is such a moving piece. My first time though, I was struck by the irony of the many colors that the boy’s dying leg refracted. It reconfirmed for me that even the prospect of death is so very much alive.
wow, thanks, all, for your insights! this piece has been living inside me for a long time, and i’m so glad it found a home among such generous readers. i was afraid, in fact, that most people would think the ugly death was too ugly. and it was, in so many ways. so hard to see and smell. so hard being helpless. and i think that’s a big part of why i wrote this, to kind of address that fragility and helplessness that comes with being mortal. for a long time i felt like my faith had failed, that if i were a better missionary i could have… instead i felt like peter, sinking into the sea. but i think i understand that it never was about me and my big or little faith. as it so often is in the case of tragic, ugly, “untimely” deaths, i think it’s about trusting in the Lord’s omniscience, in his gigantic love and ability to heal hearts after heartbreak. our bodies are unquestionably mortal, susceptible in so many ways, and yet, as i think justine is getting at, the spirit is so amazingly resilient. i have to remind myself of that in this world so full of amazing tragedy.
I think that yes, it’s ugly death. But I think it resonates because it’s so truthful and human.
Anyway, Brittney, I just loved it.