Unoriginal by Peter Graf
Even working in the garden today, my best healing experience, could not fill the hole in my heart from the loss of my son Peter. I moved slowly during the day, our first day back, for my wife and me, to what some would call our daily routine. My enthusiasm for life and the joy living brings has diminished. I do what I know I need to do and prioritize my activity intellectually rather than by heart.
Pat, my wife, joined me this morning for what I thought was our 11am Tuesday group at our friend Dismas’ house. The Tuesday at 11am gathering that was meeting at Jim’s house moved to Dismas’ house after Jim died. Dismas is dying, a slow and painful death, but, like Jim, with dignity and humility.
When we got there, instead of our small group, I found a large group of Dismas’ friends participating in a home liturgy. It was like a funeral mass, except the person was still alive and sitting in the room. It was a very moving experience and afterward our friend said that the painful waiting for death he was experiencing was lifted some at the liturgy. Both Jim and Dismas were married priests, which adds another layer of meaning to their dying.
Another friend, this time a woman priest, wrote me tonight of how she lost her youngest son at age 18, 20 years ago. This would mean he was the same age as my son, who was now 38. She spoke of anger at God for the loss of her son but also of the healing she felt. I do not feel anger or healing. But like my friend Dismas, I feel a slow dying, but not of my physical life, but a dying never the less. Like my friend I long for the dying to happen but it does not. From both my married priests and woman priest friends I am learning of the mystery of dying.
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