When An Elder Dies

I took this the day he died. (Jan 2019)

My Uncle died recently, aged 89, a retired Lutheran minister.
His Dad, five brothers and brother-in-law (his sister's husband) were all ministers as well.
My Dad and uncle were very close. I remember listening to their late Saturday night phone calls as a kid. Late, because the long distance rates were cheaper. Saturday because they were polishing up their sermons for Sunday.
They both preached about and more importantly lived their lives in support of peace and social justice. I recall being so confused when I realized how much of the vocal Christian world spews hate. This was not the tradition of Christ I saw, which involved helping other people, all people, no matter who they are. I suppose my first lesson was round age 8 when I picked up the phone at home and some angry man delivered a death threat aimed at my "daddy". Not cool.
I was very close with my Dad, but he died when I was in my 20's, about 6 years after a heart transplant. My uncle came and stayed with Dad for the 3 months he had to stay at the transplant house after the surgery, as my Mom had to go back to work. My uncle and aunt were also there with us at my Dad's bedside when he took his last breath. Both my father and his brother were reverends and I don't mean to be irreverent, but some of my Dad's last words were a fart joke. Which I shall cherish to the end of my days.
Mu uncle became like a second Dad to me, and my aunt a second Mom, and my cousins like siblings. How fortunate I feel to have this bonus family! That puts up with me! I am pretty sure my uncle was teed off at me our last day together, as I was being a bossy doctor type in the hospital. There is actually a picture of us flipping off the camera (sorry--I know this is irreverent), but my son, with whom I shared this picture, and who happens to be in prison, pointed out that while I was flipping off the camera, my uncle was technically flipping off me.
I have a son in prison and I gave the finger with my beloved uncle on my last day with him. Do you guys think I am ready for sainthood yet?
The other thing that happened that day is he almost said he loved me. My uncle (unlike my Dad, who told me pretty much every day of my life that he loved me, usually several times, and I do this to my kids and they find it so annoying, one of them actually threatened to block me on texting) NEVER responded in kind to the phrase "I love you." It just was not in his vocabulary. So after the middle finger incident, I was saying goodbye to him, and I leaned in for a long hug, him in his hospital bed and now both of us crying. I said "I love you" and I'll be damned if he didn't say "me too". Which I shall cherish to the end of my days.
I keep trying to figure out what I have such strong connections to people I love but have not been able to be the world's best parent. Maybe this skips a generation? So my kids will be stellar parents. When they are ready. And out of prison. And stuff. Family is complicated and life is short and biology thinks it is key but I actually don't buy it.
What I learned from my parents, and people like my Aunt and Uncle is this:
Do kindness to others. Fight the good fight. Risk yourself to stand up for justice. Have a sense of humor. Know some good swear words in German. Love like it is your last day on earth, even if the word "love" is a confusing one to you.

When life happens to me, I write about it. So here are two poems. Dedicated to Rex, my Dad, my Aunt, my cousins, my children, and everyone else who might feel inclined to find solace and inanity in the strange beauty of words.

Pantoum on Exchanging Sermons

Brothers exchange sermons
over lemon yellow phone, cord
taut from wall to couch where little brother lies in socks,
cradling the words between shoulder and ear.

Over lemon yellow phone cord
God's Gadflies gather biblical gems,
cradling the words between shoulder and ear,
scrawling ideas in the moonlight.

God's Gadflies gather biblical gems
late Saturday nights.
Scrawling ideas in the moonlight,
while I quietly curl in a chair and spy.

Late Saturday nights,
cost of long distance calls less dear,
while I quietly curl in a chair and spy,
they preach justice, peace, human rights.

Cost of long distance calls less dear,
my pajama arms clutch teddy bear,
they talk justice, peace, human rights,
sometimes in German.

My pajama arms clutch teddy bear.
Only rarely do they swear,
usually in German,
For my sake perhaps.

Only rarely do they swear,
about cancer and war,
for my sake perhaps,
or about that terrible used car purchased on a dark rainy night.

About cancer and war,
so far as I knew,
or about that terrible used car purchased on a dark rainy night,
these men deal in mysteries.

So far as I knew,
they would always be here,
singing "O Canada" in German.
Brothers exchanging sermons.


Old Soul Flying

When an elder dies
Maybe his soul flies
In search of familiar
Smells of waxed wood on pulpit,
Of Mother's bread baking.
Hearing wolves howl
On an icy Canadian road.
Old soul feels sun through the parsonage window
And the heartbeat of a soft baby rabbit
Thudding on hands which brush
Briefly against his sweetheart's when he hands her the gift.
Hands that will brush often over 63 married years,
Wet with grief's and laughter's tears.
Old soul swoons with the top of each
Child, Grandchild, Great-grandchild's head inhaled,
With the hypoxia of mountains scaled.
A piece of old soul resides in India's soil,
And along American highways, convertible top down,
Pulling into a Wisconsin town.
32,485 meals filled old soul
Plus black coffee from favorite waitress
Cup warming hand,
Fueling courage to stand up for peace.
Cracking jokes with youngest niece,
Who feels old soul brush away tears,
A model of life well spent.
When an elder dies,
I hope the coffee is eternally excellent.