Twenty-four hours ago, my wife got the phone call no one ever wants to get. One of her oldest and dearest friends, Betsi, aka Boo, had died suddenly. What do you say? How do you console? Her grief was overwhelming.
We’re all just passengers on this journey. Life is so full of twists and turns; one day, it’s sunny and hopeful, and then the next day, along comes one of these terrible Arctic blasts that freezes everything, including our hearts. The world appears to be the same, but it isn’t. Life goes on, but it doesn’t. It is all such a mystery, and for me, that is when faith needs to kick in.
Faith doesn’t provide any specific answers—it never explains why—but it can comfort. Without some small measure of faith, our lives are lived only in real time, minute-to-minute, day-to-day, year-to year. And when a life is suddenly cut short, time stops forever. “Boo was so happy. We had all these plans. Now…” Silence. Empty, endless silence.
My mother came from hardy New England stock. She was outgoing and accomplished but like many of her generation and ilk, she was not given to displays of emotion. Once, when I was struggling to climb some personal mountain, she gave me the “you made this bed so lie in it” talk; she was right, but what I really needed was a a gentle pep talk and a strong hug. But that’s not the point. This is: mother lived to be 95 and was in good health and of sound mind right up until the time doctors found a cancer near her spine. She was in the hospital for only a week, then came home to hospice care. Near the end, she was in that twilight stage for several hours when suddenly her eyes flew open and she raised herself from her pillows and said, “I’ve never seen such love before.” It was clear to me that at that moment, she was already in the company of saints, and that her taciturn New England nature had turned into something akin to rapture. Maybe that was the moment my own faith really kicked in.
I am no longer a church-goer. I was once, but I’ve retreated from that obligation. That said, I do have a strong faith. and while I’m not inclined to believe that God has a master plan for each of us, I do take comfort in the belief that even when bad things happen to good people, there is more, something beyond death. I have no idea what that is, but I do believe there is an afterlife, and that all the love we have accumulated along the way returns to us at the end.
Today, Betsi—my wife calls her “my shining star, my angel friend”—at the very least lives on in our minds and in our hearts, but I think there is more. I think I can see her walking on the beach with her beloved old vizsla Auggie: he is once again young and spry and he bounds happily ahead, while Betsi’s footprints stretch away into the distance, indelible marks along the tideline of my own infinite consciousness.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.
Judy Hedges says
Jamie… especially lovely this time. There is always quality to your writing… but-sometimes-
grace grabs your pen. Thank you for something solid enough to hang a star on — in this cold
and ominous time. Tears flowed with the old dog reimagined… to that tideline! Thanks, Judy
Jamie Kirkpatrick says
“Thank you,” he said humbly.