The youngest of my brothers-in-law died recently, following a long period of worsening, physical incapacity and illness. He was the second of my generation to go, my younger brother having passed three years ago, and I suspect his death brought the spectre of the end-times somewhat closer to us all.
In addition to my sister, he left behind four children, three of whom are married, giving him three grandsons and two wee granddaughters. At his private interment, his daughter and three sons spoke of him as a loving and beloved father, and there is no greater tribute I can imagine. Eighteen of us exchanged reflections and prayers that day, spoken to each other and to him, designed to bring a sense of closure and peace to us all. We were saddened, of course, by his passing, but relieved that his suffering was ended.
He was married to my sister for forty-five years, a loving union that brought credit upon them both. I still remember dancing at their wedding, when none of us—so young and brash and full of piss-and-vinegar—could have imagined this day coming. But it has now for him, as it must someday for all of us.
Deliberate and intentional in word and deed, especially as he grew older, my brother-in-law was rarely intemperate or harsh in his dealings with others. A man of deep faith, he was loving and giving, and forgiving of others’ shortcomings. Throughout his tribulations, he was confident that, as he approached the final crossing, he would meet his saviour on the other side. I hope he has.
In her remarks, my sister said something I thought perfectly summed up his life and faith—from Matthew 25:23, “Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things…enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”
My wife shared many of those same understandings about what is to come with him, and I remember them engaged in deep conversation over the years, communicating their ideas and beliefs, their hopes for the hereafter. By contrast, given my differing views, the exchanges I had with him tended to be temporal more than spiritual, though always sincere and affectionate. He had a way of thinking before he spoke, and I constantly found myself leaning in to be sure not to miss what he might have to say.
The day after he passed, I wrote the following note to my sister—
When we get old, as some of us have, we think differently about death than when we were younger. I won’t say we ever look forward to it, but we perhaps stop fearing it.
We think of death as a companion on our journey through life—way back in the throng at the beginning, but gaining on us as we begin slowing down.
We think of death, not as a spectre that will end things, but as an usher who will open the next door and allow us in.
Just as life ushered us in at the beginning of our journey through the here and now, death ushers us into the beginning of our next journey. None of us knows what that journey will look like, but faith sustains us.
When I think of him now, and where he is, I think of these lines, adapted from the poem High Flight, by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.—
Oh! he has slipped the surly bonds of earth
And dances the skies on laughter-silvered wings…
He has topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace…
Put out his hand and touched the face of God.
With that note, I also included one of my favourite poems, When You Are Old, by William Butler Yeats, the greatest of the Irish poets. I imagine it as the song my brother-in-law might be singing now to my sister from wherever in this vast universe he finds himself, and I hope it comforts them both—
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
tallandtruetales 