Death

Commentary by Pir-o-Murshid Inayat Khan

l that is constructed is subject to destruction; all that is composed must be decomposed; all that is formed must be destroyed; that which has birth has death. But all this belongs to matter; the spirit which is absorbed by this formation of matter or by its mechanism lives, for spirit cannot die.

That which the soul has borrowed he must give back when it has done its work; it was borrowed for a certain time and for a certain purpose.

When the purpose is fulfilled, when the time is finished, then every plane asks for that which the soul has borrowed from it, and one cannot help but give it back to that plane.

It is this process which is called assimilation. Since man is born greedy and selfish he has taken all things willingly, enthusiastically -- he gives them back grudgingly and calls it death. ...

Death is nothing but the taking off of one garb and giving it back to the plane from which it was borrowed, for the condition is this: one cannot take the garb of the lower plane to the higher plane.

The soul is only released when it is willing -- or compelled -- to give its garb to the plane it has taken it from.

It is this which releases the soul to go on in its travel.

And as it proceeds to a higher plane, after its stay there it must again give its garb back and be purified from it in order to go further. ... This knowledge also throws a light upon the question of death.

Death is not really death; it is only a passing stage, it is only a change, as changing clothes.

Death is a tax the soul has to pay for having had a name and a form.

The Escort

-A Cop’s Story at Christmas-

The Escort

 

It was many decades ago when I first joined the police department, I knew there would be special occasions my family would spend without me. Knowing that fact didn't make the task any easier.  The celebrations I missed that first year depressed me and sometimes made me feel bitter. Working on Christmas Eve was always the worst.

On Christmas Eve years ago, I learned that blessings can come disguised as misfortune, and honor is more than just a word.

I was riding one-man patrol on the 4-12 shift. The night was cold. Everywhere I looked I saw reminders of the holiday: families packing their cars with presents, beautifully decorated trees in living room windows and roofs adorned with tiny sleighs. It all added to my holiday funk.

The evening had been relatively quiet; there were calls for barking dogs and a residential false burglar alarm. There was nothing to make the night pass any quicker. I thought of my own family and sunk further into depression.

Shortly after 2200 hours I got a radio call to the home of an elderly, terminally ill man. I parked my patrol car in front of a simple Cape Cod style home. First aid kit in hand, I walked up the short path to the front door. As I approached, a woman who seemed to be about 80 years old opened the door. "He's in here", she said. She led me to a back bedroom.

We passed through a living room that was furnished in a style I had come to associate with older people. The sofa has an afghan blanket draped over its back and a dark, solid Queen Anne chair say next to an unused fireplace. The mantle was cluttered with an eccentric mix of several photos, some ceramic figurines and an antique clock. A floor lamp provided soft lighting.

We entered a small bedroom where a frail looking man lay in bed with a blanket pulled up to his chin. He wore a blank stare on his ashen, skeletal face. His breathing was shallow and labored. He was barely alive. The trappings of illness were all around his bed. The nightstand was littered with a large number of pill vials. An oxygen bottle stood nearby. Its plastic hose, with face mask attached, rested on the blanket.

I asked the old woman why she called the police. She simply shrugged and nodded sadly toward her husband, indicating it was at his request. I looked at him and he stared intently into my eyes. He seemed relaxed now. I didn't understand the suddenly calm expression on his face.

I looked around the room again. A dresser stood along the wall to the left of the bed. On it was the usual memorabilia: ornate perfume bottles, a white porcelain pin case, and a wooden jewelry case. There were also several photos in simple frames. One caught my eye and I walked closer to the dresser for a closer look. The picture showed a young man dressed in a police uniform. It was unmistakably a photo of the man in bed. I knew then why I was there.

I looked at the old man and he motioned with his hand toward the side of the bed. I walked over and stood beside him. He slid a thin arm from under the covers and took my hand. Soon, I felt his hand go limp, I looked at his face. There was no fear there. I saw only peace.

He knew he was dying; he was aware his time was very near. I knew now that he was afraid of what was about to happen and he wanted the protection of a fellow cop on his journey. A caring God had seen to it that his child would be delivered safely to Him. The honor of being his escort fell to me.

When I left at the end of my tour that night, the temperature seemed to have risen considerably, and all the holiday displays I saw on the way home made me smile.

I no longer feel sorry for myself for having to work on Christmas Eve. I have chosen an honorable profession. I pray that when it's my turn to leave this world there will be a cop there to hold my hand and remind me that I have nothing to fear.

I wish all my brothers and sisters who have to work this Christmas Eve all the joy and warmth of the season.

We have all been there. God bless you all.

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God" (Matthew 5:9).

 

Restored to Eternal Life

One thing we know for sure about our God:
Our God is a God of the living, not of the dead.
God is life.
God is love.
God is beauty.
God is goodness.
God is truth.
God doesn't want us to die.
God wants us to live.
Our God, who loves us from eternity to eternity, wants to give us life for eternity.

When that life was interrupted by our unwillingness to give our full yes to God's love, God sent Jesus to be with us and to say that great yes in our name and thus restore us to eternal life.
So let's not be afraid of death.
There is no cruel boss, vengeful enemy, or cruel tyrant waiting to destroy us - only a loving, always forgiving God, eager to welcome us home.

-- Henri Nouwen

Aging Gracefully

written by SUE MOSTELLER

One of the sisters in my Congregation who taught me more than fifty years ago is now one hundred years old. Today she is blind and in a wheelchair. Whenever I see her at dinner, she is not too interested in the tiny serving of food on her plate, but she is totally engaged in conversation with others at the table. Her questions are penetrating, and she loves a stimulating conversation.
When newcasters came to the convent to interview her after Pope John Paul II died, they asked her to pretend to be saying her rosary and to look sad. She indignantly replied, "I'm sorry, but I talk to the Lord in a different way today! And why would I look sad that the Pope died? Didn't he lead an adventuresome life? Wasn't he amazing - the way he lived his public life to the end in such fragility? Isn't he an example of living fully and dying in his time? No, sir, I cannot put on a sad face. I feel so joyful that his mission is accomplished!"
I'm still a young'un at seventy-three years of age, but as I continue the aging process, I'd love to imitate that amazing woman, who fully accepts the necessary diminishment of her humanity while rejecting all forms of inner death!

- SUE MOSTELLER is retired, having lived for more than 30 years in the community of L'Arche Daybreak. She and Henri Nouwen were friends and Sue now works for the Henri Nouwen Legacy Trust.

Being Ready to Die

How can we be prepared to die?
By not having any unfinished relational business.
The question is: Have I forgiven those who have hurt me and asked forgiveness from those I have hurt?
When I feel at peace with all the people I live with, my death might cause great grief, but it will not cause guilt or anger.
When we are ready to die at any moment, we also are ready to live at any moment.

-- Henri Nouwen

Crabby Old Man

When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near Tampa, Florida, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Missouri. The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the St. Louis Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem. And this little old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this anonymous poem winging across the Internet.

Crabby Old Man

What do you see nurses? . . . . . What do you see?
What are you thinking . . . . . when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man. . . . . not very wise
Uncertain of habit . . . . . .with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food . . . . . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . . . . . "I do wish you'd try!"
Who seems not to notice . . . . . the things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . a sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not . . . . . lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding . . . . . the long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? . . . . . Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse . . . . . you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am . . . . . as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding . . . . . as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten . . . . . with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters . . . . . who love one another

A young boy of Sixteen . . . . . with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now . . . . . a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty . . . . . my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows . . . . . that I promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now . . . . . I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . . . . . and a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . . . . . my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other ...... with ties that should last.

At Forty, my young sons . . . . . have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside me . . . . . to see I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more . . . . . babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . . my loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me . . . . . my wife is now dead.
I look at the future . . . . . I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing . . . . . young of their own.
And I think of the years . . . . . and the love that I've known.

I'm now an old man . . . . . and nature is cruel.
T'is jest to make old age . . . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles . . . . . grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone . . . . . where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass . . . . . a young guy still dwells,
And now and again . . . . . .my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys . . . . . I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living . . . . . life over again.

I think of the years . . . . . all too few . . . . . gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . . . . that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people . . . . . pen and see..
Not a crabby old man.
Look closer . . . . . see . . . . . ME!!

Remember this poem when you next meet an older person that you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within . . . . . we will all, one day, be there, too.

Love All, Serve All

Death can come at any minute, in any way.

We do not know what is in store tomorrow, or,

whether there is a tomorrow, or even a tonight!

But still, we have the golden present.

Now we are alive and kicking.

What should we do now?

Love all, serve all.

-- Swami Satchidananda