“Fathers will hear the hoofbeats of the enemies’ horses,
the clatter of their chariots and the rumbling of their wheels.
They will not turn back to save their children
because they will be paralyzed with fear.” jere 47
My father is dying.
In my life, I’ve experienced too many deaths of people I loved, far more than a “normal” person. I’m not sure why this is the case but suffice it to say that many, many people I dearly loved are now gone. I miss them. A couple of them I think of every day. Poignant memories fade but are not erased by time.
Now, I’m watching my father slowly die. He fell again today, bruising his leg. Such falls are becoming more frequent. He absolutely refuses to use a walker, which, perhaps, would help. I put the walker next to “his chair” and begged him to use it but he won’t touch it. He says he doesn’t need it.
There’s nothing I can do to make him use it … such a stubborn man.
He’s an atheist and always has been. As he is about using his walker, he is about his atheism — he won’t budge.
I’ve wondered what it’s like to die without any hope of an afterlife. My own vision of “heaven” or “eternity” is blurry, and quite honestly, I don’t think about what happens after my death. It’s just not something that interests me: when I get older, I’m sure it will. Right now, I’m eager to resume life, not end it, to have a big and full life, not one that recedes to a point of light. My death isn’t on my mental horizon, though my father’s death is.
Father is a hardcore materialist. He believes that all ideas and even values have a material origin, that there’s nothing in the universe that’s not reducible to either energy or matter. This includes his own ideas and body. He knows that he’s dying and expects to “return to dust.” He’s fine with this, he says. If this is the case, then why is he fighting death so valiantly? Why struggle to stay alive when all that he can hope for is a return to dust?
His life is neither full or meaningful but he seems to enjoy it. Perhaps that’s his primary motivation to stay alive. But I sense, in our conversations, a hesitancy about death. Even fear. I try to reassure him that in some way — I don’t know how — he’ll persist. He responds by saying he’ll only persist in memory for two generations. After that, he’ll be forgotten just like the generations that preceded his. There’s a truth to what he’s saying, of course. I never knew my grandparents or great-grandparents, so my recollections of generations past include only my parents. Since I didn’t have a meaningful or positive relationship with my mother, I never think of her. I recall meeting one of my aunts only once. The other aunts and uncles, I knew only slightly — I don’t even know if they’re alive now. Probably not. So, in a very real way, the only family relation I have left is my father.
I do have children, the generation ahead of me. Those of us who have had children have left our “seed,” the children we created. Our genes are like my father’s materialistic take on the world. They persist, though we don’t. Though some of us may have created great art, literature or music, or have been historical figures in some way, most of us simply pass out of human consciousness. We’ll lie in a forgotten grave in the cemetery, unremarked and unnoticed. “We will never forget you …” is a common epitaph on gravestones, a sentiment more hopeful than real.
Yes, you will forget! We all do. Part of healing from the pain of the deaths of people we love is forgetting. Your children will forget and your grandchildren certainly will. Though America is such a family-centric place, we have lost our family orientation. Some women, Christian women in particular, hyper-focus on their children while forgetting their parents, grandparents and more distant relatives. Mobility adds to this disconnectedness. I wonder if the recent trend toward living with relatives, often out of financial need, will restore some of the connections we used to have with extended families. Perhaps this culturally anomic trend can be reversed?
To be honest, I’m not sure I want a close relationship with my family. It’s simply the case that I have far less in common with my children and father than I do with a few, choice friends. An upside of the disintegration of family, perhaps, are the close bonds formed with people outside of my family. My loyalty toward these individuals is truly unshakeable. They are few, and most are far away, but still, they’re deeply rooted in my heart. The deaths of my old friends were far more disturbing than the notices I received of the deaths of relatives.
My father, unlike me, had an extended family. He was close to his uncles and aunts, had parents who cared for him as well as a loving sibling. He even had grandparents. He’s the last one left, I think, of his generation. And, I’m his remaining child, the only loyal child, at least. At one point he was very interested in genealogy and spent hours hunting down the names, places and birthdates of relatives from long ago. Since we know nothing about most of these people, I’m not sure of the point of this exercise. His 23-and-me was more revealing because it proved a “pure” English heritage which had been posited, but never validated. If I recall correctly, he is 97-percent English. This means he is not a European mutt like most Americans! Somehow, for more than three hundred years, his relatives in the United States found, chose and married only Englishmen and Englishwomen. I find this to be an amazing fact considering they were surrounded by Germans, Scandinavians, French and even some below-the-Alps sorts. True, America was more homogeneous back then, but still, it’s bizarre that not one person in more than 300 years had “married out.”
As I watch him lose his strength, struggle to live and slowly die, I’m reminded of how generations comes and go like tides, one after the next. My loyalty to my father is secure, not because we had a great relationship (I never really knew him as a child), but because I am obeying the command to “honor your mother and father.” This isn’t an option, but a command. By helping him die, I’m honoring him as well as all the generations before his.
Honoring him means gently sending him to an unknown future … with an unknown past.
This is what’s required of me. Most of you who read this blog want to know how a Christian thinks because you’re not Christians yourselves. I’m trying to tell you but am not doing well at it. There’s an ambiguity that surrounds death. A cloudy nuance. But for the most part, a Christian tries to live as close to the biblical commandments as possible. Most of the commandments are negative — don’t do this or that. A few are positive including the command to honor parents.
And that’s what I’m doing. I’m honoring my father during the time of his approaching death. Serving him. Trying to love him. Praying for him and caring for his incessant needs.
Being obedient to the command of God to honor parents, that is.
