His nose drips incessantly now, he’s unable to wipe it— he’s losing speech— cannot stand— is afraid of the lift that helps him into the washroom— looks to a stuffed animal for little comfort— he’s losing teeth as quickly as memories— his left side, paralyzed— his right, not far behind— he doesn’t know me anymore, I am crying he softly says as he begins to cry at the mention of an unforgettable bike ride in his youth, Fiddler on the Roof, a former pastor, or the choirs he loved— then begins in German, long drawn out phrases— we don’t understand. His son wipes his eyes, his chin, and then, as if resurrected this white-haired man, with the clarity of a soloist belts out Then sings my soul, my Savior, God, to Thee How great Thou art! How great Thou art! We’ve joined in, ready to repeat the lines but he stops, slides back into mumbling— twitching uncontrollably— his wheelchair squeaks. We are silent awhile, then he manages to read his grandson’s sweatshirt with his high school logo, Boston Trinity Is it a Christian school? Yes, Grandpa Are you a Christian? Yes, Grandpa I am I’m proud of you, he says in all earnestness, and awakens again with the voice of a young man I have decided to follow Jesus I have decided to follow Jesus I have decided to follow Jesus No turning back, no turning back We all join in, Though none go with me, still I will follow Though none go with me, still I will follow Though none go with me, still I will follow No turning back, no turning back He stops and looks at us, emptied, then asks about a picture on his shelf, always the same one— his grandchildren. The frame does more than hold a picture, it is battery-operated, and hidden in it, the treasure of four of his eight grandchildren’s voices, recorded, each offering a favorite Grandpa saying— The bus is leaving! Yabbi dabbi doo! Grandpa’s noodles! Oh goodness sakes! and then together they sing We love you Grandpa! He breaks into a smile, repeats to himself, We love you Grandpa… He looks around the room confused. None of those four are here at this moment. These are your grandsons, too, Peter, the ones from Boston! Boston he repeats Boston, then nearly shouts The cross before me, the world behind me We join him, The cross before me, the world behind me The cross before me, the world behind me No turning back, no turning back It’s time to go but when we wheel him out, weaving through a dozen occupied wheelchairs facing a blank TV, all the way to the fake Christmas tree, decorated in haste with cheap ornaments he cries out in his perfect baritone O Tannenbaum! O Tannenbaum! then chuckles, as if to himself— and in the momentary light of lucidity he smiles at that tree, smiles up at us and declares with perfect ease, Man, I’ve got it good.
*This is a true account from this last Christmas, of visiting my father-in-law, an endlessly cheerful man, full of faith in his last days. What an inheritance for my husband, and therefore, for my sons as well. “What remains” is actually the title of my husband’s forthcoming book on Ecclesiastes, so he’s gracious to let me use it for this poem, as well.
*It is exactly 12 weeks until the one-year anniversary of sharing an original poem of mine here on Substack, every Wednesday morning. For the handful of you who have been with me from the beginning, wow you have encouraged me. Thank you.
*Now, why am I telling you that it’s 12 weeks from now? To give you time to plan to come to Boston! I’m going to throw a real life party for my subscribers when I reach that one-year milestone. There will be music and dancing, poems read, and libations enjoyed. I’m serious, you’re all invited. Let’s blow open this online-only kind of writing life, and meet up IRL. Please let me know if you’re coming, and there will be more details in the weeks to come.
^tip jar^
~~~
“All theologizing, if worth its salt, must submit to the test of hospital gowns, droning television sets, and food spilled in the clumsy effort to eat.”
- Belden C. Lane in The Solace of Fierce Landscapes
Beautiful, poignant and aesthetically a feast
Beautiful and real, you've articulated so well the pains and joys of the latter years of a man of faith. Standing at the cusp of eternity, yet more limited by mortality than he ever has been before. I pray for Peter's joyful entry to Jesus presence, and hope and joy for his family when the time comes.