Not a Tragedy

The story below is true, as are all the stories you will find here. All names, except for mine and my husband, Steve, have been changed, in case anyone is shy. The following reflection details an evening of uncommon grace; there was goodness all around.

Not a Tragedy
by Maureen Morley

Psalm 34:8 Taste and see that the Lord is good

(April 6, 2005)
“Logic!” said the Professor half to himself. “Why don’t they teach logic at these schools? There are only three possibilities. Either your sister is telling lies, or she is mad, or she is telling the truth. You know she doesn’t tell lies and it is obvious that she is not mad. For the moment then and unless any further evidence turns up, we must assume that she is telling the truth.”

Sean is reading aloud – this Professor has a booming, Scottish lilt – from C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Sean’s a very good reader, his voice changing intonation with each character, his whole body tensing with the effort, his legs bouncing on the sofa. Each word is clearly enunciated; he is unselfconscious. I smile, tickled and grateful.

The gathering here was his idea; he suggested it to Steve recently when they met for coffee, knowing what a fan I am of the Narnia books, knowing what a difficult time its been lately, off and on, for me and for Steve. There’s been more chemo for me, a bulging disk for Steve, and a multitude of unanswered questions about the future for both of us. So Sean sent some emails around, and although it’s the last week of regular term, eight of us showed up tonight at Sean and Rob’s place, bedraggled and tired. We feasted on remarkably moist, barely-pink pork with rosemary and apples. There were loads of crispy roasted potatoes, a mixed green salad with toasted almonds and mandarin oranges, coarse white and brown bread with lots of butter, and a couple bottles of wine. Sean bragged about cooking the pork, joked that Rob – whose culinary talent is long-recognized – is preparing him for marriage, teaching him to cook and clean. The meal is delicious. Someone’s gonna be a lucky girl. But Rob himself brings out the piece de resistance – a flourless chocolate loaf that slices like thick butter, accompanied by spoonfuls of strawberries and whipped cream. Oh, my.

We linger over the meal for a long time. Gary, from Texas, tells us about meeting a rattlesnake along a dusty trail in Big Bend National Park.

“Let me show you why it’s called Big Bend,” he says theatrically, drawing a map of Texas in the air. “For all you UK folks, this is Texas. See? It’s…”

“BIG,” interrupts Steve.

Gary grins, raises his eyebrow at Steve. “Yeah. And the park, see, it’s BIG too. And then, down at the bottom of it…”

“…is a big BEND,” I say.

“Precisely,” says Gary, waving his arm in the air like an orchestra conductor.

“I’m from the states. That’s how I knew,” I laugh.

It’s a simple bunch of banter, but it works. Meg, sitting across from Gary, smiles contentedly and takes a sip of wine, her eyes sparkling. She just finished her comprehensive exam today – and cooked Steve and I a meal to take home with us for tomorrow. Scott, the Northern Irishman to my right, and Steve’s best man at our wedding, laments how his wife keeps giving away his favorite chocolate from home. Rob brings out dessert, serves all the rest of us before handing Scott a plate full of strawberries and cream.

“We ran out of chocolate,” he says and we all hoot.

“You’s people are supposed to be my friends!” Scott says.

And we go on like this, bantering and laughing and eating. Finally, around nine-thirty we look at our watches and turn toward the living room to begin reading.

Most of us can’t remember the last time we read aloud, and run a gambit from mildly to moderately self-conscious as we each read a chapter. It’s almost a lost art, this reading aloud, except to very young children – and even then I suspect it doesn’t happen as often or as well as it used to. I think we’re missing out. We’re all enthralled listening to him tell about how Edmund acted beastly to Lucy, how the Professor supported Lucy’s strange tale of a magical land.

“I wonder what they do teach them at these schools,” says Sean as Professor, scratching his head.

From the sofa to my right, where he lays stretched out resting his back, Steve giggles like a school-boy. Now that’s a soothing sound.

This night is a balm.

It’s great to get out and spend a few hours with friends. We have, perhaps, been a little too isolated, nursing our infirmities. These days, I feel a bit like a Munchkin from The Wizard of Oz. Not because I’ve lost more than an inch of height due to spinal compression, the ‘bone settling’ that occurs in elderly ladies with osteoporosis or late thirty-somethings with spine-eating cancer; I started out a bit over five-foot-seven, so I still tower above the little people. No, as I wake up in the late morning, groggy after a poor sleep, make some coffee, do a few dishes and feel like I need to rest my back again, it’s the song the Munchkins sing that runs through my mind and resonates with my life: “We get up at twelve and start to work at one…take an hour for lunch and then at two we’re done….” The range of activities that I do day-to-day has decreased, my experiences funneled over these months so that now I: walk a little, rest; write a little, rest; meet a friend for coffee, rest; go to church and perhaps out for lunch, rest. All this resting can be bad for your health. You can start thinking that the reason for your existence is to feel better, which means the reason for your existence is not for now, but for later. You might then put all your efforts into ensuring that better future, or, more accurately for me, stop making much effort at all until “better” occurs. But, come to think of it, isn’t that how so many of us have lived all along? Trying to make life better?

But that begs a question. What if it doesn’t get better?

Eugene Peterson, in Subversive Spirituality, says that our modern view of death underscores that death: a) is tragic, and b) should bed delayed as long as possible. But I don’t really feel that way. In my most recent angst-filled complaint to God, I cried out in both physical and emotional pain, “Lord, I don’t want to be here anymore!” But even in angst-free moments, when I feel a new ache or pain in my body, a number of feelings stir: fear, sadness, anger, resignation, but also excitement. Excitement? Well, I can’t help but wonder if this is the beginning of the end, and if so I’m not altogether displeased. If my faith in a good, big God – revealed to us through Jesus – is well-founded, my death is not tragic. Maybe it is true that I have to relinquish so much here: dancing lessons with my husband, long runs on the beach, face-to-face contact with my family, holding a baby in my arms. But then, perhaps it is also true that as I open my hand, God takes it in his own to lead me somewhere. And he will not abandon those I leave behind. Why, then, should it automatically be right to take any drastic measure necessary to procrastinate dying?

I feel a little guilty that I think this way. But I’m bucking a sacred cow, a defining myth of our day, the one that insists that the keys to a good life are staying young and healthy and as physically beautiful as possible, for as long as possible. I also don’t mean to imply that I lack love for Steve, my family or my friends. I do love them; I care about their lives; I’m committed to caring for them. But Jesus is a reality for me, the truest love of my life. He is the truth of the human heart’s desire. Still, I tell God that I will be here as long as he wants me here. I won’t mope around, I won’t check out before his whistle blows, only because he’s so big and faithful. Pour your love into me, so that I can give it back out. I’m sorry for my complaining. I know I’m safe. Your will be done. Really.

Still, I feel entirely comfortable saying, “No, thank you,” when well-meaning, even hurting people who struggle with the fact of my illness, offer me potential miracle-cures like consuming nightly bowlfuls of Tibetan Snowflake Fungus.

Steve’s animated voice as he begins his turn to read interrupts my reverie.

“Safe?” said Mr. Beaver (speaking to Lucy, Susan and Peter), “Who said anything about safe?

‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good.”

Of course, Mr. Beaver is referring to – shh! – Aslan: the majestic, mysterious Lion, the gentle yet powerful Christ-figure. This passage used to puzzle me a little. Intuitively, I knew it was true – yes! Aslan isn’t safe, but he is good – but I wasn’t really sure what Mr. Beaver meant. How is Aslan unsafe? Now I think I get it. He might lead you up a mountain pass when none of your friends want to follow; he might rebuke you when you’re being a selfish, scared little prig; he might cause you to writhe in agony as he tears away your hard, scaly outer shell[1]. But then you are scrubbed-pink-new, trembling a little as the fresh air hits your vulnerable skin, refreshing, bracing.

Then again, he might lay out a feast before you, and plop you down in the midst of wonderful, silly, mixed-up, beautiful people who care about you and with whom you almost think you could live forever. Their food strengthens. Their voices soothe.

Still, I’m with Peter, as he replies to Mr. Beaver’s description of Aslan: “I’m longing to see him…even if I do feel frightened when it comes to the point.”

[1] These are references to events from several of the seven books in C.S. Lewis’s series The Chronicles of Narnia. If you haven’t read them, oh please do.