Meeting Joe Black

“If a man die, shall he live again?” (Job 14:14, KJV)

 

     Much as been written about the concept of death. There are poems, and narratives and stories. There are the Shakespearean plays, and dark poems written by even darker poets. There are books aplenty, and first person accounts of their own singular passings.

     But there’s a journey from theory to reality, as there is in all the disciplines of life.

     It all becomes remarkably real when you begin to lose someone to the Inevitable; when you are given the opportunity to commune with those who are actively, and irrevocably passing over.

     I have always been fascinated by death, but death as a theory. I’ve always been captivated by poems that extol the virtues of dying a good death, and I’ve enjoyed walking through cemeteries, galore. The monuments and inscriptions fascinate me.

     But theory must always give sway to reality, if we are to mature and approach life, as it was meant to be approached. Theory is head knowledge. Reality is that gut-level, hard-fought experience of the soul, and there’s just no substitute for experience.

     There’s a movie called, “Meet Joe Black” in which death takes on the form of a man, and appears to his next “candidate.” During the movie, death ceases to be the mortal enemy of the man, but rather, assumes the role of his friend and confidant. Death’s nominee accepts his demise, and virtually walks hand in hand with him into the shadows. That’s just about as real as it gets.

     I met death recently.

     No, I didn’t die, nor was I resurrected to live again. But it was still one of the most unique experiences I’ve had the opportunity to pass through. For I met a candidate, and I spent time with a nominee. And that’s the closest we get, ‘til we are personally visited by “Joe Black.”

     I’ve been given two profound opportunities to impact the candidate in question. I failed miserably in the first, and succeeded beyond my wildest expectations in the second.

    My mother-in-law was a quiet, but deeply religious woman who knew a great deal of heartache in her time. She knew grief and disillusionment in her time. She suffered intense physical pain in her time.

    We’d never exchanged much more than small talk, and polite bantering; over the course of forty years. But this time was different, and her words seemed to pierce me to the quick.

     “Royce, I feel like I need to talk. I’ve got some things I need to share with someone. Could you spare a little time sometime soon?”

 

      But I responded with a pat, but insufficient answer... "Ruby, I can't do that. It's considered unethical for counselor to counsel a relative or close friend."

    Well, that was the correct answer; at least if you are to believe all the text books, and professional associations. But I knew when I responded that my answer fell short of the spiritual mark that God was drawing in the sand that day.

     I don’t remember the look on her face. Perhaps I purposely turned my head from her. But I can imagine it was the look of disillusionment and disappointment. I’ll never know what my mother-in-law wanted to share with me. I’ll never know the emotions she might have divulged. I’ll never know the confidence she might have invested. I’ll never have the opportunity to relieve whatever distress she knew. I regret my hapless decision to “cut her off.” Knowing my mother-in-law, her closed personality, the valiant way she experienced pain, she never attempted to share with another, whatever it was she would have shared with me. I can only imagine the fresh reclusiveness of her soul, having been denied the opportunity to reveal it. Her “never to be realized” opportunity will haunt me, ‘til I lay it all down. But I cannot return to it. There are no time machines.

     Yet, I’m glad that wasn’t the end of the story. Providence, or fate, or God or whatever we wish to call it gave me another chance; a chance to redeem myself.

      Death was knocking loud on the door of that little lady’s life. She had broken her hip earlier in the year, and her mind joined her body in the march towards resignation. Now it’s never been my “style” to visit nursing homes, but I visited her occasionally.

      Ruby was “somewhere in between” most of the time. Some days were better than others, and there were the occasional lucid moments. There were those strange responses and poignant phrases from her. Though she knew the Lord, she didn’t seem keen on going with Him, immediately. She’d look up at the ceiling, and says things like “Go away. It’s not time yet,” or “Stop all that singing.” At other times, she’d reach upward, and move her fingers; something many do, when they close in on death.

     But “Joe Black” insisted, and he seemed to linger on the periphery, and no one doubted where all this was going. The fragile woman was moved between several facilities during those three months; once as a result of poor nursing care, and another time for pain management purposes.

     The weeks progressed, and the fervor of their impact on my mother-in- law paralleled that progression. She no longer spoke, but seemed to recognize one or the other of us, and she seemed to respond to our words.

 

     No, my friends. Joe Black is neither the enemy, nor the intimate friend of the dying. He is a stranger that comes to visit, and to ultimately claim the mortal breath of God's intimate creation. He is a stranger that began to prepare for his once, and final visit at the moment of conception.

 

     The little lady had been transferred to hospice care. She was frail, and no longer took water or nourishment. Regular doses of morphine were administered, though she occasionally exhibited symptoms of recognition.

     I can only echo what has been written about end of life care. It really is about living, not about dying. Or at least it can be. The room was neither very dark nor extremely bright. But flowers and balloons covered tables, and favorite family photographs were pinned to the wall. A gospel CD played softly, and several family members talked quietly to one another.

    Having failed my first opportunity, I was given a second chance to pour into the life of my precious mother-in-law. (The irony was that it came so late into her journey, and this time, she hadn’t asked for my assistance).

     It’s not real clear these eight weeks later; someone may have suggested it, or it may have just occurred to me. But I moved close to the bed of the dear lady, and whispered in her ear. “Mom, I want to sing you a song. I think you might like it."

     Now I don’t know how people just get up and sing in church, without sheet music. While I’ve been able to memorize scripture, it’s never been that way with music. But I was determined to come along side, and do what little I could do at “such a time as this.”

    With each passing day I sang to her. Each time I sang, the tenor of it all seemed more natural. It didn’t matter who stood nearby, or whether I was alone in the room. Songs like, “Til the storm passes by,” and “I’d rather have Jesus,” and of course, “Amazing Grace” flowed from my lips. And there was no forgetting the words; not one time. They were all there.

     And the hand of “Joe Black” was stayed for a season, as if the love of her family, and what I refer to as “my second chance” could make a temporal difference in the scheme of last things.

 

     They say that hearing is the last thing that goes. I believe that. That knowledge is almost intuitive to them who minister to dying patients. I like to think that my frail attempts at music helped set the stage for the last scene in which my mother in law would eve participate.

 

Death was once a theory for me. Reality has replaced theory, as a storm replaces a hush.

     There’s a poignant verse in The Book of Jonah… “And the word of the Lord came to Jonah a second time.”(3:1, KJV) The prophet was given a second chance to do the right thing, to do “the God thing,” to get busy doing what he should have been doing all along. I got my second chance.

     My submission to God’s voice, and that second chance will remain a watershed event for me. My lack of words in the first case gave way to a multitude of words in the second.

 

     I like to think my mother in law and I knew each other better at the end of her fateful journey.

      I’m so grateful for that second chance.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Unconventional Devotions" Copyright 2005