I have lit a candle. It is a tiny, flickering light for a friend whose funeral is today.
I asked my children to bring me some fresh, graceful lilies of the valley that are beginning to bloom, and when they heard the flowers are for Taru, they thought a bit of bright rebelliousness is needed and added a bunch of dandelions in the bouquet.
And I cried and I laughed, as I couldn’t have thought more perfect combination If I had planned it for weeks. Not only they are as bright and happy as my friend, but also the dandelions represent sun and moon and all the stars, healing and reminding of the power of the sun rising, even in grief. And of course, it also symbolizes joy and happiness. Lilies of the valley, those wonders of nature, the national flower of Finland, are a symbol of not only rebirth, but return of happiness.
So, I lit my candle and placed those glorious symbolism of hope beside it and smiled and cried and laughed through my tears, as for a moment I was certain I could hear her laugh. My children combined impossible things together, just like my friend always did in her crafting; made art out of impossible.
And I thought that although today is a sad day, it is also a day I must smile. The sun is shining, the whole nature is celebrating the beginning of a new summer, I have lilies of the valley spreading their wonderful, pure scent, and I have a yellow, sunny dandelion explosion on my desk.
Then I thought that although I am a very, very typical Lutheran Finn, feeling matters of faith are to be privately treasured, today of all days I want to share a story with you. It is one that I originally wrote to be part of My Story (the 10 posts in my blog) but then decided to leave it out as irrelevant at that point. But after Taru’s sudden death I have been thinking about death often and I think now it is time to talk about it.
You see, I am not afraid of death. I have seen it. Years ago, on a Christmas Night.
Our daughter decided she wanted to be our very own Christmas Star and was born a little early, on Christmas Eve morning, with a snowstorm accompanying her. At that time, nobody knew that something inside me was horribly wrong, that myasthenia gravis was creeping inside me, destroying the connections between my brain and my muscles.
(You may or most probably not know, that myasthenia gravis is a neurologic illness that kind of mixes the map between brain and muscles, so that the messages do not go through and when tired, exhausted, after exertion, they simply do not know the way. It’s all right if your feet forget suddenly how to function, but when your lungs do it, it’s not quite so funny.)
The Christmas Night, with a new-born in my arms in a hospital bed, at about midnight, when the sky was full of stars and the nature hold its breath for the Christmas Miracle, I had my first myasthenic crisis. Everything in me suddenly forgot how to do their work. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t ask for help. Inside my head I understood this, but my body couldn’t do anything. Over 8 years later I still find it difficult to talk about. I saw myself laying there, in my bed with our new-born Christmas Star in my hands, escaping further and further away from my grasp, and the light was so… indescribably bright … To the end of my life, I can remember the moment I was sent back and I remember how I managed to take a deep, hovering breath and started to cough blood and woke our Star who started crying and I hid the bloody napkin from the nurses (and never talked about it) and I was feeling so, so, so… I cannot describe it. I couldn’t get any sleep for the rest of the night, so I spent the Christmas Night with our Star, singing hymns for her. To this day Handel’s Rejoice Greatly, O Daughter of Zion reminds me of that silent Christmas Night years ago.
That I saw the Light, I saw the Beauty, the Goodness, the Indescribable, has carried me through all these years. I don’t care if anyone believes me or not, if they think this is a theologian talking here or if they think I must have dreamt it. I don’t care. I know. I felt it. I saw it. I saw Him.
I have told this, beside my husband, years later, to the two MDs that I have ever trusted enough to do so. Another told me it was just the hormones and tiredness and told me that our body does not function that way, that it never “forgets” to breathe. (Except, he was wrong. I was later diagnosed with myasthenia gravis, which is the one illness where exactly that can happen.) The other MD, he did something I am forever grateful him for. Because of what he did, I started to understand something about myself.
He simply asked me, quietly and wistfully “How was it there?” And maybe, most importantly, he realised to ask me something else. “Do you miss it?” “Was it hard to come back?”
It was the first time ever I actually stopped to thought about it that way. It was Everything in there. And maybe it is the paradox of life, but although I am more grateful than any words could describe for the fact that I am still here, with our children and with my husband, there is this immeasurable longing inside me, to go back. I have seen something I carry inside me every single day, in every single breathe of life I take. The Indescribable Light.
Last week I stumbled upon a song that took my breath away and I have listened to it a lot since, as the lyrics captures my thoughts and feelings so accurately.
by Jeremy Camp
The final rest on that day
When I lay my weary head on heaven's shore
The final breath is not the end
It's just the start of all that I've been living for
On that day when I am welcomed home
I will run like a child
To the arms of Your love
I will sing with tongues of angels
With those who've gone before
When I look upon Your face
The very moment I have craved
In Your presence forevermore
On heaven's shore
To leave this place is to leave my fears
And step into the light of the glory of my King
I'll see in full and bow in awe
In the presence of my Savior's majesty
I can't wait, no, I can't wait
I will run like a child
To the arms of Your love
I will sing with tongues of angels
With those who've gone before
When I look upon Your face
The very moment I have craved
In Your presence forevermore
On heaven's shore
Singing Hallelujah
I'll sing forever and I'll sing forever
Hallelujah
I'll sing forever and I'll sing forever
Hallelujah
When I reach heaven's shore
***
I am not afraid of death. I have seen it. And when the time comes, I will run like a child to His arms. But how come, I still am crying for my friend’s death? It is the paradox of life, that precious gift given to us, that even if we are grateful for the one life we are given, even if we are not afraid of death, it does not mean we wouldn't miss our friends gone.
Dandelions and lilies of the valley, those wonders of nature, maybe tell it best, symbolising hope and happiness and eternal life and love. The final breath is not the end. It's just the start of all that I've been living for.
Taru, I will miss you forever, but I hope that you are happily crafting and laughing forevermore. One day we’ll see again.
No comments:
Post a Comment