Requiem

Two weeks ago, my grandfather—almost 90—passed away. The memorial service was the following Friday, and I shared some thoughts. They are recorded here, with just a few edits:

On Monday of this week, I had a standing appointment with my spiritual director. Knowing about Grandpa’s passing, she asked me if I wanted to keep the appointment. “Oh, yes,” I said. I’m glad I did. She helped me so much in processing and dealing with his passing.

She asked me how Grandpa was a gift to me. What a question! I know that he was a gift in many ways to many people. Two things came very quickly to mind. First, he was a great expression of embodied love. He wasn't often verbally expressive of it; he just lived that way. As everyone could attest, he would do anything for you. There was never any request that he wasn't willing to grant. I couldn't begin to count the times he helped me financially, physically, and with advice. He really personified love in a very practical, tangible way. And everyone who knew him was richer for it.

The second way that he was a gift to me was the joy that he always brought. Some of my earliest childhood memories were simply that Grandpa always made me laugh. Again, I’m sure this isn't news to anyone. He just loved to laugh and have a good time. There are few people who were more joy-filled than Bob Buch.

After I mentioned these two gifts, my director then asked how I thought I could honor him in my own life. And simply put, I would want to continue his legacy of personified love and joy. If I could exhibit half the love and the joy that he did throughout his life, I would consider that I had lived a good life.

For the last several months of Grandpa’s life I was involved in a stage production of Tennessee Williams’ Night of the Iguana.  One of the main characters in the play is traveling with her grandfather, who is close to death and is composing a poem. They both realize that completing the poem will be his last act in this life. At the end of the play, the poem is finished and the grandfather does in fact die. You can imagine the impact of rehearsing this death of a beloved grandfather over and over. The completed poem is a poignant symbol of mortality. And I’d like to end by sharing it now.

How calmly does the orange branch

Observe the sky begin to blanch

Without a cry, without a prayer,

With no betrayal of despair.

Sometime while light obscures the tree

The zenith of its life will be 

Gone past forever,

And from thence

A second history will commence.

A chronicle no longer gold,

A bargaining with mist and mould,

And finally the broken stem

The plummeting to earth; and then

An intercourse not well designed 

For beings of a golden kind

Whose native green must arch above

The earth's obscene, corrupting love

And still the ripe fruit and the branch

Observe the sky begin to blanch

Without a cry, without a prayer,

With no betrayal of despair.

O Courage, could you not as well

Select a second place to dwell,

Not only in that golden tree

But in the frightened heart of me?