Not an Ending

"Ends are not bad things, they just mean that something else is about to begin. And there are many things that don't really end, anyway, they just begin again in a new way. Ends are not bad and many ends aren't really an ending; some things are never-ending." - C. JoyBell C.


We learned early Monday morning of the passing of a close uncle.  Ibe (given name: Ira) was 90 years old, devoted to his family, a church-going man, a father to two and grandfather to two, a veteran of the second world war, faithful for more than 65 years to his wife, my father's eldest sister Ella Mae (age 89), who survives him.

My uncle had been in declining health for some time, so while his passing was a shock, as death always is, it was not unexpected.

The sad news was followed by details about the arrangements: a viewing on Tuesday, a funeral Wednesday morning, with my uncle's remains being laid to rest in the cemetery at St. John's, my family church.

And so I rearranged some schedules, cancelled some work meetings, and on Wednesday, my husband and I returned home to pay our respects, spend time with family, celebrate my uncle's life.

Wednesday brought one of the sweetest October days on record, unseasonably warm and sunny, the foliage still lit like a flame, a perfect send-off to glory.

As I entered the church, I hugged my cousins, shared my condolences; then turned to hug my aunt Ella Mae. A 90-pound powerhouse of a woman, she grabbed my hand firmly, gave big hugs, pounded me enthusiastically between the shoulders with a strength that left me gasping.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," I whispered in her ear.

"It's all part of livin'," she said back.

She hugged me firmly again. Turned to unleash her hugs upon my husband. The woman could whip her weight in wildcats. Always could. ("She's not going anywhere anytime soon," my husband whispered to me later. Her mother, my grandma, lived to 94; I suspect Mae will top that.)

I spoke to the granddaughters, sitting tearfully by her side: "How are you girls doing?" They shook their heads. "Now he's at peace," one of the girls offered. My uncle had been sick, unhappily so, for several months near the end. It had been difficult to witness his suffering.

The pallbearers carried his coffin into the graveyard, and we followed after them, finished the ceremony outdoors. It was such a glorious day that it was hard not to be happy in the day itself. We were all smiling, perhaps a bit guiltily. How not to be glad to be alive on a day like this?

I have happy memories of playing in the churchyard cemetery as a child: before or after church, on breaks during Bible school in summers. The smell of paste. Cutting out pictures from Bible stories: Joseph and his coat of many colors. Kool-aid and cookies at break time. Climbing the trees. Playing on the tombstones. Scraping my knees. (Always a tomboy, even then.)

An adult now, I walked through the cemetery, read the names of loved ones long passed, stepped over the spot where my own bones will someday lie. Looked at the golden foliage on the hills around me, thought about the trees and the cycles of life and the coming leaf fall. How sad we will be when it all ends.

But thinking also of the eternal spring which follows: death followed by resurrection; rebirth. Not an ending, but a new beginning.

From glory, unto glory. World without end. Amen.