It looks like I have a couple of major organs slowly shutting down.  Doctors have warned of my impending death for more than a decade now, and overall I've been disinclined to make too much of their prognosis.  Sometimes I suspect they say these things just to persuade me to take another prescription medication or schedule some other surgical intervention. Statistically, I've been lucky enough to afford to be cynical.  But the fact is, one of these days they will be right.  And despite how our culture misinforms of about the possibility of prolonging youth and life indefinitely, one of these days God, who is the only one who has any real say about it, will call me home.

This summer, I was hospitalized for nearly a week while doctors worked and watched to discern whether I had a heart attack, a blood clot, or acute heart failure--and what to do about it.  Now I measure my health by the numbers: systolic, diastolic, heart rate, brain naturopeptide, blood glucose, blood urea nitrogen, creatinine, troponin, ejection fraction, blood oxygen--the numbers never seem to end.  The numbers are no longer confined to my lab test results--now I'm asked to take my own measurements and record the numbers, from the moment I first get up in the morning until I close my eyes at night.  It's a struggle not to become obsessed with numbers.  

But there is no life in numbers, whether they rise or fall.  The question becomes, not how to measure my health, which is clearly departing, but how to measure the remaining life I have been given.

Will it be measured in decades, years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds?  Or will it be in lives and hearts touched, eyes met, smiles exchanged?  In depth of conversation, the confirmation of meaning, purpose, and hope?  In spiritual gifts uncovered, named, acknowledged and stirred up?  In spiritual journeys accompanied and joys shared?

On the eve of Richard's death, I wonder had Richard been blessed with a longer life, how would have made use of the opportunity to serve as a faithful example of how to age, how to die.  As it is, we need to be satisfied with the example he gave of how to live.  And rather than look to him for an example at this season of my life, I find myself drawn to the living examples of Quaker elders around me as my health abates.  As I look at them, I am aware that this is not a time of life to declare spiritual bankruptcy, withdraw my support or to become miserly with my gifts, but a time to freely share the truth the Inner Teacher has set in my heart.  It is not a time to hesitate to plant the seeds that will only thrive after my departure, but rather a time to share the light I have have grown in with those who will remain.

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.      

These days I often find myself on the banks of the Ohio River looking over into Kentucky. I like to visit the river just where the water is wide.     

Perhaps because it represents an obstacle between those who stand on opposite shores, or perhaps because like time it flows only in one direction,  through centuries and cultures the river has represented death.  


I bring my grown-up children to the viewpoint at St. Rose Church on the banks of the river because more than a decade ago, it is a place my father brought me.  He loved to watch the great riverboats go up and down the Ohio, and I loved it, too, because it was something we could enjoy together.  I think of him when I visit the river, now that he has passed on.  I rejoice in his love for the riverboats, his love of language, his enthusiasm for crossword puzzles up until the end, and his awe at the astonishing vista of the sun breaking through clouds over the city that would transport him to the threshold of poetry.  

Growing up, my children were around my father more than their own.  So these days I bring my children with me to watch the river because I don't believe I'll be here a decade from now to look at it with them. I want my children to have a glimpse of the other side of the river because I want to share with them the memory of my father watching the river with me. Someday I hope they will hold their own memories of observing the river with me after I am gone.

Although the obvious symbolism of the river is death, if we wait patiently, we find there is life on the river, too.  There are some creatures who are drawn to the waters by thirst, others by the need for a home in its waters or on its banks.  Bees and dragonflies busy themselves in blooming bushes.  Hummingbirds dart, cicadas shriek their song.  A formation of geese flies overhead, heralding the changing cycle of seasons.  There is a persistent groundhog who plays slowly on the bank in the daylight, and at twilight when he hides, a ginger marbled cat sniffs cautiously along his path.  Plenty of people stop by to watch the barges riding downstream empty and light or chugging upstream full of coal and low in the water.  The steamship riverboats show up, the party boats, the fishing boats, speedboats and the rest of the river craft. 

 And I like to show my children, like my father showed me, the graph painted on the wall of the church that faces the river.  It shows the years the river has flooded its banks, and measures the level the river has reached in each of those flood years.  Some times are peaceful, like this year, when nothing has been recorded.  Other times are natural catastrophes.  But there is hope written on that wall too, though we have to read between the lines to see it--even in times of crisis we know that although it floods pretty regularly, the river eventually returns to its level and life regains its balance.

Once I am gone, I wish my children many long years of river watching in times of crisis as well as calm, until someday we all gather once more with those we love and long for on the other side.