Oniontown Pastoral: Swing Low, Sweet Chariot

What possessed me to start bellowing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” as I helped my mother-in-law, Edna, remain standing while wife Kathy and daughter Elena quickly changed the hospital bed sheets? I’ve no clue. I mean, we’re talking deep chest singing with old time vibrato.

Edna had come to the Coleman house to spend her remaining days under hospice care. Kathy cheerfully tended to her mother’s many and intimate needs, none of us knowing how long Edna’s failing heart would hang in there. Turns out it would be two weeks. St. John’s Lutheran in Oniontown and Kathy’s employer in Erie were patient and supportive as we finessed schedules so that somebody would always be home.

Now, with the deathbed and oxygen machine taken away, an African-American spiritual of the late 19^th century has provided a moment we’ll remember about Edna’s stay on our enclosed front porch, a bright space painted lavender. Kathy and I are telling each other stories as folks do when grief is fresh. Occasionally one of us will just say, “Oh, Edna.” And a wistful smile will spread across Kathy’s face as she remembers the blessing of her mother’s homestretch: “John, she was happy!”

Gratitude leavened the melancholy fact that everybody has to go sometime, and Edna’s appointment with the great mystery was at hand. Unexpectedly joyful it was, then, as I sang the chorus twice, “Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home,” and trailed off: “Yeah, that’s all I got. I don’t know the rest.” As if on cue, my lovely daughter and mother-in-law, who could scarcely breathe, took up the song: “I looked over Jordan and what did I see, comin’ for to carry me home! A band of angels comin’ after me, comin’ for to carry me home.”

Still keeping Edna on her feet, I got out of the way, except for the repeats. Some passable harmony got worked in, giving the sun streaming in a glow and charming the room into a lavender embrace.

“If you get to heaven before I do, comin’ for to carry me home! Tell all my friends I’m comin’ there too, comin’ for to carry me home!” That was about it, I think.

Where Elena learned the song, I’m not sure. How Edna knew it I would learn later. When Kathy was a child, her mother often sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” while tending to this chore or that. Go figure. It was coincidence, then, that her court jester of a son-in-law busted out such an old tune as her end drew near.

Once Edna eased back down on the bed and took a couple of recovery breaths, she said, “Nice song you picked there, John.” Although she didn’t discuss death directly, she caught the irony.

Early on when a hospice worker asked, “Do you have any funeral arrangements?” Edna said, “Nope.”

“Would you like to make any?”

“Nope.”

The closest our family matriarch came to addressing the inevitable happened two days before her oxygen bottomed out and Kathy and I kept vigil over every breath. Or was it one day before? Clocks don’t keep time accurately when one generation surrenders to the next.

“So, Katheen,” Edna asked. “How far is it to the goodbye place?”

“You mean the cemetery?” Kathy said. “There’s one a few blocks from here.”

In a heartbeat she knew what her mother meant. “How much longer until I die?” Her 85-year-old body was pained and spent, and even somebody who won’t say “grave” sooner or later longs for exactly that. All prayers and wishes aside, the chariot arrives.

I turned off the television, which Edna liked up loud. For two weeks old westerns had taken over the house. Even my writing hut out in the backyard was no escape, since I took a monitor with me for surveillance. I’ll miss Edna, but not the relentless soundtracks of cowboy movies.

The room was silent. We put the oxygen monitor away. Kathy took her hand, and I held her foot through the blanket. A tear ran down her cheek—honest. A couple minutes later, Edna was still. We tried, but her eyes wouldn’t stay closed.

That was four days ago, when Edna was “heavenly bound.” May loved ones have welcomed her home. May we who have no choice but to ride sweet chariots when they swing low for us look back down to glimpse a beloved who stayed near to witness the final falling of our chest. May we rise still hearing a melody of sorts, whispered into our ear: “I’m here with you. You’re not alone.”

Tomorrow Edna’s family and friends will gather before her ashes, speak the customary words and sing a few hymns. Elena and I will give “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” a try. I’m hopeful, but can’t promise that we’ll get through it.