Art and I had a routine. He poked his head into my office doorway, checking to see if the coast was clear—a few times a week since Doris passed nine years ago.
“Thought I’d come in and bug you for a few minutes,” he said, then had a seat.
Half-hour by half-hour we picked through his life and pulled out stories as if from attic boxes: Korea, close enough to the action to hear the shells whistle; a garage-building crew in the old neighborhood and the keg they were bound to finish and the world spinning; Doris dying alone in the afternoon while he ran errands—he never quite forgave himself.
“Well,” Art said, standing up, “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“But, Art,” I always answered, “I have been working.”
He had to stop on the way home for something, maybe boloney. Samwiches every day for lunch get boring. After a while you forget to eat.
Art got to church first on Sunday mornings, unlocked the doors and set the bulletins out. But arthritis clamped down on his shoulders so badly that he gave in and got a crew cut. Combs and spoons weren’t his friends anymore. If I had a nickel for every time I fixed his collar or untwisted his suspenders . . . . Getting to worship became a project, weary and burdensome.
This past winter Erie, Pennsylvania, was cruel. Art’s car and many others at Niagara Village were snowbound, but the wind chills would have kept him inside anyway. He had time to dwell on the indignities of age: obstinate hearts, lungs, and bowels. And loneliness. He looked at Doris’ picture on the wall and told her, “Send me my ticket. I’m ready.” He lay in bed before dawn, anxious and hazy, and wondered if what he was feeling was death.
Kidney failure pushed him over the edge. I was there when a kind doctor leaned in close and with his manner as much as his words let Art know that forgoing dialysis was just fine. We prayed.
Oh, his poor arms, torn and purple.
Loved ones and nurses took in what was happening. Muffled tears. Compression devices off of his calves, the Velcro cackling. A tube or two removed. I don’t remember, exactly.
Art’s faithful son Mark went to make calls. Suddenly, Art and I were alone.
“What do you think Doris will say when you get there?” I said.
“Probably ‘What took you so long?’”
“Can I tell the [church] people what’s going on with you?”
“Yep, tell them I’m going home.”
I held his hand as he looked far off. Death wouldn’t arrive for a week or so, but he seemed to be peeking into another doorway, one where the coast is always clear—so I believe.
“Are you okay with this, Art?” I said. “Are you at peace?”
He was already on his way: “Yep, just help me through the door.”
Still holding his hand, I cried without him seeing.
The sanctuary filled up for Art. We gave him a good send off—big choir, his boys sharp in uniform, loving words and a salute from his eldest, “How Great Thou Art” sung by one of his beloved church-grandchildren. We ended with our beautiful old prayer poem: “Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant, Art. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive him into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.”
The next morning I gathered with family at the cemetery. We said more words—“earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust”—and slid Art’s urn in next to Doris’. Some hugs later, I drove away through the deep, winding green of summer. I can’t recall what I did the rest of that day.
I sit now with coffee, keeping company with a few more tears that are still floating in my reservoir.
And I sit with an understanding: nothing can rush sadness through the door after a friend dies, especially one you’ve said to many times, “Here, let me fix your suspenders.” It was my privilege.
Last evening, knowing the best I can do is keep my own door open wide enough for grief to go in and out freely, I drove with wife Kathy to Presque Isle, to beaches that feel like home.
The Lake Erie sunset was on. Yes, a sunset, stunning cliché of the western sky, light everybody sails into eventually. Wind kept the landscape in motion, waves and light playing in the last few minutes of day.
Kathy and I stood at the water’s edge and held each other. The air moved over us—I want to say blew through us. As I breathed in and out, we seemed to be welcomed in by the sinking sun, the clouds mysteriously still, restless Lake Erie, and all the quick and the dead. We embraced each other, and creation embraced us.
It would be satisfying to say that I sensed Art’s presence, but that would be a slanted truth. Rather, resting my cheek against Kathy’s hair, receiving her cheek against my chest, my soul knew the hope of a gathering, a cosmic dance of sun, water, wind, sand, grass, and hearts. The song is of mercy.
Just after the sun set, a pale vault opened in its place, glowing in the memory of the great light. I felt as though I was looking into the dance, moving with it as much as anyone can without joining it entirely.
What does death feel like? Art wondered, and so do I. Now he knows. I pray that it’s like losing yourself in a dance, completely embraced, yet free, too amazed by color, light, and love to straighten your collar or imagine that anybody has ever died alone.
So very moving and I am crying while writing this at work. I will miss that wonderful, loving man too.
Yeah, fewer and fewer “Arts” are coming off the production lines every year . . . when the world needs more. Peace.
What a beautiful and loving tribute. I’m sorry for your loss.
Thanks, Nancy. One of the hazards of loving a whole bunch of people–end up missing ’em.
Beautiful tribute to a kind and caring man. Brought on the tears I couldn’t manage before. Loretta
I don’t know anybody who tried as hard as he could every day to do the right thing. Love that guy.
Thanks so much for sharing John….You cease to amaze me…
Thanks, Judie. Hope all is well with you.
What a wonderful tribute, John. So beautifully written. I, too, hope death is like losing oneself in a dance. We’ve lost another family member this week; seems like we’ve lost so many family members and friends in the past year or so. Your post gives me hope and comfort. Thank you! Blessings, Deb
Hey, Deb. Yeah, seems like you just heal up from one loss, and, boom, there’s the next. The hope still keeps me smiling . . . most days. Blessings back at you, Ben, and the whole game. Peace, John
John, you write with such empathy. Thank you for sharing this story. Your parishioners are fortunate to have you care for them.
Thanks, Rob. My old buddy Art sure was a special subject. Hope all is well with you and yours. Peace, John
I waited to read this one as I knew it would stir up a plethora of emotions. I wish my trip would have gotten me to Erie earlier in the week so that I could have witnessed that wonderful send off that I have heard so much about. What a blessing Art was to so many, myself included. He will be missed but I believe that he and Doris are sharing that wonderful dance! Thanks to Art for the many wonderful lessons he taught is all!!!
It’s weird, Art had been pretty much homebound for over a year, but still, Abiding Hope feels bruised by his passing. I don’t know anybody who tried day-by-day to do the right thing more than Art did. Peace, John
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What a beautiful piece of sincere writing. I only popped over from NTT’s after reading your welcome back comment to her there. I’m not sorry I did. Art sounds like he was fine man and you do him justice in this. May he rest in peace.
Thanks for stopping, Mom. Glad you enjoyed the piece on my old buddy Art. I’ll be stopping by your place soon. Peace and best, John
God damn it, John, you made me cry again. You know how I feel about that; if you’re going to be beautiful and touching, warn me first.
and please give Art’s family extra love from me. I feel like I knew him too.
Yea, she’s back! All piss and vinegar. Good to see you. It’s amazing how simple goodness like Art’s attracts so much love. The next post is a little less touching. 😉 John
I am back. Piss, vinegar, and all the rest. Thanks for the heads up on your next post. Of course, you could always post a disclaimer at the top of your posts — “WARNING — WILL MAKE NAPTIMETHOUGHTS CRY”. That would work too. Although I’d probably keep reading anyhow… 🙂 Or perhaps a color warning system, like after 9/11? THIS POST IS RATED ORANGE FOR BEAUTY AND SADNESS.
Ah, I’m going to read them all anyway.
Geez Louise, you crack me up. A color warning system! Actually, I’m sending a query letter and samples to an agent today–trying to cobble together a collection and schlep it around. Fingers crossed.
Fingers and toes crossed!
An honor to help someone pass with love and grace. I think it is harder for those of us left behind.
I agree completely. That’s my prayer, anyhow.
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