The ritual of last days...

I went home, knowing but not knowing. I went home to see her, to find the truth somewhere between her words that said she was okay, and her voice that sounded not so okay. I went home to call and maybe yell at doctors who weren't responding quickly enough, who weren't telling us the whole of the truth, who didn't seem as worried as we were.  At least, that it why I told myself I was going home. 

My reason for going home was really somewhere far from that. I went home, because there were things to do. There were rituals to perform. Rituals this woman had taught me. Practices we had cried over in worship in the years before I was the one leading worship. I went home, because these were the last days, these were holy days, and there were things to do.

When I saw her, I knew. The life was leaving. The glow she possessed was gone. But while I recognized the shadow that rested with her, I wasn't compelled to rush, or hurry, or yell, or anything of the things I had expected myself to be compelled to. I saw the shadow, though my heart insisted my eyes were wrong. 

I did things that I didn't fully understand, and still don't. I took my dad to the pharmacy. And we bought everything possible. Wipes and creams and sprays and peanut M&Ms. She loved peanut M&Ms. 

We were at the pharmacy too long. Like we were searching for something that wasn't on the shelves, but we had to look for it anyway. Her dad stayed with her while we were gone. He sat with her, while she slept. He kept watch over her, sensing her shadow nearby.

And we gave her the wipes and creams and sprays and M&Ms. And she thought it was all very funny, all these things we bought. It was funny, but she would try them. She would try anything. The shadow was heavy. 

And so I ran a bath for her. I let the water run while I gathered oils and baking soda and witch hazel and all the things I thought might still her aching body. And when the bath was full I helped her from the couch, carried her to the water, helped her ease in. I played her music while she rested. Her shadow nearby. God's promises whispering from her phone. I left her alone there. I left her alone to let her feel the pain and the relief that she refused to feel when we were nearby. 

In the morning, she felt better. She was up and moving, and doing simple things that seemed harder now. And so we left, just for a moment. We went to get groceries. Wanting to feed her. Needing to feed her.

We picked up fruits and vegetables, organic things. We bought lavishly, because there was a meal to prepare. We bought shrimp, because they were her favorite. And mini taco shells, so she'd feel like she was eating more than she really was, concerned about her spirit just as much as her body. 

We got home with bags and bags of fresh things. Things that looked good to her. That was the point.

And then we cooked. We peeled and prepared. We filled the oven and the stove. I left the fan off, so she could smell all the things we made for her. 

She slept, and she moved, up and down, uncomfortable. 

But she could smell it. And when I served her the plate of shrimp tacos, with chopped ginger and spinach and spices, she said it was the best thing she had ever tasted. And it wasn't. But it was the last. 

She ate the entire plate. And dad and I stared at each other. She hadn't eaten in weeks. Not more than a bite at a time. But now, she had eaten. 

And then she wanted to bathe. And so again I prepared the bath. Ran the water. Poured the oils. Started the music. This time I lit a candle and turned out the lights, filling the room with smells and steam and smoke. The old bathroom as a sanctuary. Ready for the Holy. Ready for her. She sat slowly into the water. Full for the first time in weeks. Comfortable for the first moment in months. 

She needed help out of the bath, afraid she would fall with her shadow leaning on her that way. Her body was so small. So easy to lift as she wrapped herself in a towel and began the ritual of creams and medicines, allowing me to anoint her with lavender oil to help her sleep. I thought, as I touched her, that this must be what the anointing is about. To so badly want to give comfort that we don't possess to give.

She put on her pajamas and sweatshirt after her bath, smelling like oils and feeling ready for sleep. We helped her into bed, her dog by her side, pillows surrounding her small body. I kissed her goodnight. And for the first time ever, I gave her a sleeping pill. We just got it that day. Called and begged for it. Dad, pained by watching her be unable to rest, wanted her to be at rest. So she took the pill. Glad for it. And said goodnight.

She got sick then, her insides suddenly showing us what all the discomfort was about. And we cleaned her up. We made her laugh. We hesitated. We didn't go to the hospital right away. Maybe we knew what the drive meant. We took a breath first. And we then we went. She laid on my lap as dad drove as fast as he could. And I held her hand and her head. 

I took a photo of her as we waited in the emergency room. I did it to make her laugh. Dad was making a face. I wish I wouldn't have. She is not her in the photo. The shadow is fully resting on her. Pressing on her. The valley was so deep. She was descending. We wanted to go with her.

She found some rest in the hospital, grateful someone finally recognized her shadow. Grateful, she was always grateful, grateful in those moments for those who cared for her, who told her she would be okay. 

I went home to see her. To figure out if her words or her voice were true. And they both were. She was okay, and she wasn't. And so I did the things she taught me to do. The washing, and the feeding, and the anointing.

I did things I didn't fully understand, and still don't. But these are things never done in understanding. When I did not know what to do, I did the things she taught me to practice. To wash. To feed. To anoint. To invite the holy with smoke and with song. To recognize the shadow of death, because I had been taught, by her, to see the light of life.

If she were here, she would tell me this is a beautiful way of understanding her last day. And she would tell me she's not that special. And maybe that's true. But she was faithful. And in her faith, she was able to meet the shadow of death with the practices her faith had taught her. And I was able to meet them when the faith she had taught me. 

The washing, the feeding, the anointing. I know why God walked this way. We need things to do. We need the practices. We need the story that lives in our bones and transforms bathrooms into sanctuaries and gives daughters the strength to carry their mothers and ushers us into the next thing with shadows that are not as scary as we imagine. God walked this way because we will too. And faith doesn't make us want to enter the valley, but it helps us know the way when we must. 

So I went home to see her, in what became the holiest of days. And I would have done anything to change it. But we will all enter the valley. And I pray that when I do, my faith will be as beautiful as hers.