A Strangely Beautiful Thing

My friend, Lawrence lost his father today. Lawrence and his wife, Jacqueline and their children have been precious to me and have quite simply facilitated my survival over what has been the toughest year of my life.

Having recently lost my own father, I am well aware of what is certainly coursing through Lawrence’s soul right now. Though difficult and emotionally exhausting, it is also a beautiful and fitting step in the process of life.

I have heard the stories of courage of Lawrence’s family, specifically his stepmother, Joan as if they were read with clarity from a book with no pictures. To have his father pass into whatever is after this life provides a long overdue feeling of peace. I’m certain that everyone is happy for that.

Lawrence and I have spent a lot of time talking about this moment in his life over the last several weeks. The knowledge that it was fast approaching mixed with the uncertainty of how he would react and recover was a tremendous weight on the shoulders of a strong and capable man. His sense of purpose and place in the lives of his own children and family has never wavered or been stronger. Most impressive to me is the grace with which he continued on as a model husband and father; practicing guitar with his boys, helping his daughter with her homework, honoring and encouraging his wife with loving and encouraging words. All the while, much of what he knew in his life before his own family came along was being lost to time.

In the days leading up to his father’s death, I strongly encouraged Lawrence to settle in at his dad’s bedside until he was gone. He did that and seems happy that he did. If there is anything more beautiful and precious than escorting from this life one of the beings who brought you into it, I will never know what it is.

They say that our life flashes before our eyes in the moments before death. I can say that my life as it related to my father flashed before my eyes in the hours before and after his death. As Lawrence’s loss sits heavy in my heart, I hope that he too is experiencing this flashback in glorious, stunning detail. I hope that his reverence for his dad is crystal clear and that the memory of his touch and smell are firm in his memory banks. I want him to see in his mind, the strength and texture in his father’s hands and the sound of his voice. Mostly I hope that the tears that pour from his eyes in the hours and days that lie ahead are tears of love and joy and forgiveness and release.

The epilogue to the beauty of a loss such as this is found in the realization that the last layer between Lawrence and his own mortality is now gone. As he parts with his father in physical terms, it will no doubt occur to him that his children will do the same with him. Their small, growing hands will be on him as he draws his last breath as his were on his father. I hope they never look the same as he returns home and that his inspiration moving forward is drawn from the abundance of love and support of his family. If we do indeed reap what we sew, Lawrence will be more than cared for as he eases into what is next.