To Contemplate Sister Death
During the month of November, we are invited to remember deceased loved ones. It is good for us to call to mind those who have journeyed with us and those who have impacted us. We may recall those we miss dearly because their death is still fresh in our minds or those we miss who have been gone for so long already. We may also call to mind those who have died in wars or natural disasters. Calling to mind these people and praying for them is a gift and way which holds us together as the Communion of Saints – the Body of Christ.
St. Francis reminds us death is our Sister and is the portal into the fullness of life in God. We need not fear death, rather we can contemplate it and all its mystery.
My good friend Adam Thom has written a beautiful piece which speaks to the mystery of death and the holiness of it. Adam has a personal and deep encounter with death, his reflections come from this lived experience. I think it speaks to each of us who also have had this encounter. I invite you to slowly read this piece and let it sit in you. Come back to it again over the weeks ahead. There is so much in his words and images. Consider your loved ones gone before you and your own journey.
I am grateful for Adam’s permission to share this writing. Adam is a talented writer, thinker and photographer. You can check out his work at: https://adamthom.substack.com/
May all the faithful departed rest in peace.
May perpetual light shine upon them.
Ode to June
by Adam Thom
One day I will cease and no longer be.
My corpse will rot, return to the dirt
—for it is from the dirt by which I come.
I will no doubt be forgotten
—slowly—
more and more with each passing day.
The day will come
when I will draw my last
and give my last breath.
My eyes will gaze at someone’s face
once more with love,
and then—not one glance more.
I will look
into the deep caverned eyes
of one I love,
and in blinking once more,
will not for a second more.
I will hear
the gentleness of a morning breeze
that will eventually cease
—and in that silence,
when the echoes of the wind
continue its course,
my whole life will flash by.
The silence will come
—though it already is—
and in certain moments,
I hear it and yes even see it
—and in it,
I am taught to give up my life.
Silence
—the eternal teacher of my life.
The teacher that gazes on me
through the silence of everyone
and everything.
The silence of others’ lives
meeting the silence of mine.
The silence will come,
perhaps unannounced,
wrapping me in its mantle,
and I will exist truly,
silently,
and fully
—finally—
in the hearts
of all.
I will once and for all
be asked to die
to the last things that I hold dear:
images of life;
of faces I’ve known and seen,
voices too familiar to forget,
the memory of wandering strangers
that I have passed by, though,
by some mysterious grace,
whose faces have never left me.
All of this
—for all of its beauty and goodness—
will be surrendered
at the feet of Silence,
and in silence,
perhaps, only then will I be whole;
who I was made to be;
truly and fully alive.
The particular will always exist but
as one in the mantle of silent hands,
through which, in the end,
we will all be born.
In the twilight of my life,
I will thank all in silence,
pray for all in silence,
and love all in silence.
For the first time,
I will be a full member
of the human race;
of God’s children, God’s creation,
God’s Beloved—
raptured in the Silence that is Love.
I will no longer speak of “God in my world”,
but will understand for the first time,
perhaps just how much it has always been,
“I in God’s world”
—But no, I will no longer speak—
for I will be silent;
in awe and wonder
at the infinite
beauty and mystery
that is true Life.
In shock at my poverty
as a child,
as a creature,
as a being
—I will have no more to say,
because my whole life was spent
trying to say it all,
and finally
the Silence of such Mystery
will silence me once and for all,
and I will surrender
into it’s silent and loving hands;
freely, lovingly, and happily,
finally at the cusp
of all that matters,
all that truly is,
and all that,
in the end,
will remain
forevermore.
Photo by: Adam Thom
