The End of the Walk

Today began grave. I woke with the sun, and a world bathed in light, but hard thoughts found me soon after.

At church this morning there was a homeless woman. She came early, and was sitting in the lobby when my family, also early, came in. My mother was the first to speak to her. She quickly mentioned that she was looking for a meal, and my sister quickly ran to Bo-jangles to get at least something to fill her stomach. A simple gesture. The least you would expect from folks at a church, right?

I won't tell the whole story. It deserves to be told, but there's something else more fresh on my mind. I will say, though, that in the end I was shocked at how little people were willing to help. Perhaps she was only coming to the church to get a meal, and a ride across town. Perhaps she was taking advantage of anyone who would help her. Perhaps she was really, as it appeared, a man dressed in woman's clothes. Should it matter? Aren't the people of God called to care for even the ones who would strike us down? Aren't we a religion based on love?

Everyone thinks someone should do something. No one ever thinks: and that someone is me.

My Grandmother had been visiting my parents for the past week. We took her to the airport this morning, on the way to church. At 90-years old, she still lives by herself, and doesn't seem too bad heath-wise. Nevertheless, her goodbyes seemed more final. She spoke to me last night in a way suggesting last bits of advice. Ninety years old: is that a decent senescence?

My father received a call from the wife of an old boss this evening. The man just died of cancer, his wife was asking for my father's email address to send him details about the memorial service.

I'm still young, young enough that I rarely think too seriously about death. This man my father knew was only a few years older than my father himself. It's not a rare thing. Men die older than women on average, and my parents are slowly greying, active as they are.

But I'm not ready to have those thoughts in relation to my parents. I'm not even legally an adult for another month. Even after that, I'd like my children to meet their grandparents, and marriage is nowhere on the horizon for me. Being the youngest of four children, I feel more fearful of losing them, perhaps. I barely independent, if I am at all. As a Christian, I'm told not to fear death. I don't think I fear my own.

I suppose none of my thoughts are truly coherent enough at the moment to say anything much else here. I really just wanted to post Mr. Thomas' thoughts on death, as related to his father. The little bits of literary knowledge I have collected brought it to mind tonight.



Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.