I thought I was done with deathbed farewells, and then a son of an old friend called.
My dad would like you to come see him.
Why?
He’s dying.
Forty-some years ago a friend called and told me her mother was dying and her Episcopal priest was out of town and I was the only minister she knew nearby.
Can you come and administer last rites?
Presbyterians don’t do last rites, I told her.
Oh, but I know you can. Just fake it. She’s comatose. She won’t know the difference.
I went, held the dying woman’s hand, read the 23rd Psalm, said the Lord’s Prayer, anointed her with oil, kissed her, and pronounced the Trinitarian benediction. After hugging my friend, I left.
She called the next day.
Mom woke up and she’s feeling fine.
She went on to live several more years.
A similar thing happened a few months later when I visited a parishioner on her deathbed. I hugged her family one by one and left. Two hours later her husband called.
You won’t believe it. She woke up shortly after you left.
She lived 20 more years.
(If you need last rites, don’t call me. I’m not good at it.)
Last month I went to see my dying friend. His son led me to his room.
You wanted to see me?
Yeah, I did. But first I’ve got a joke for you.
He told me his joke. Then I told one. Then his son told one. Then his daughter-in-law. Then his step-daughter. Then he told another. On and on it went for an hour—laughing in the face of death.
A deathbed joke fest.
When you asked to see me, is this what you had in mind?
No. But it’s been fun. Of course, I didn’t have dying in mind either, but here we are.
Yes, here we are. And I’m still wondering whether there was something in particular you wanted to see me about?
No. Not really. I just wanted to see my friends before I leave.
I took his hand, resting in the moment, feeling blessed.
Say, would you like to hear Bilbo Baggins’s blessing for an outbound traveler?
Sure, why not?
He closed his eyes.
“Wherever you fare, my friend, may you fare well.”
He opened his eyes, leaned toward me, and muttered: You know, I’ve never liked Tolkien. Too wordy.
Again. Don’t call me.
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See Paula’s “Love Sweeps In” on the home page.
I’ve always said I want to die laughing. We’ve all heard the adage, “Laughter is the best medicine.” That one proves itself over and over again. So I guess there’s something to it. Let there be music and singing when I go. As John Prine suggested a long time ago, “Cut me up and pass me all around.” It seems you have the touch, Doc! See that things are well done. ONWARD! 🙂
Or as my poet friend Ethan Fischer told me on his deathbed: “Dying is easy; comedy’s hard.”
🦚
During the twenty years I spent in parish ministry it was often the off license use of the pastoral office that was the most interesting and rewarding – I have a “last rites’ story of my own, persuading a family that they were torturing the medical staff who were being forced to pump the man’s heart while they waited for a Catholic priest to arrive to do it right. Or the weddings of non-churched folk who needed to have the holy ghosts evoked by the holy man. Those weddings were often more satisfying than the churched folk who saw my services as a part of the check list – hall for the reception, florist, music, dresses – and the pastor.
Thank you for approaching this topic, one that most people choose to avoid, with a sense of humor and appreciation. It seems to me that death is a great teacher. It teaches us about interdependence, the sacredness of now, the importance of love, impermanence, humility, and even the ability to crack jokes while we can. To me, Bilbo Baggins’s blessing speaks of tender caring, not some kind of macho “toughness.” Suppose we viewed death not as apart from life but as a part of life? Might we treat others with greater sensitivity and tenderness? Might we live—and also die—in a different way? Gibran was right: “For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.”
You are just the most wonderful friend to have, in life and on the verge of death. You are blessed and you share it widely and I, for one, appreciate it.
Amen.
Thanks very much for this happy piece about good things happening at the door to death.
Death is the most democratic part of life. We all experience it. Having wished for death in the deepest depths of alcoholism, death no longer scares me.
I understand the peace and sleep are very deep.
You have an amazingly powerful spirit. It touches us all. Thanks for sharing.
No one “right” way to Live; No one “right” way to Die;
Many and varied are the ways we Live and Die;
And I am so Grateful to Live in and with you all;
And laughing, crying, celebrating, mourning together;
Stories, Jokes and Laughter – what a way to go!!
Thank you for going with the flow…
I smiled for what you shared. Continue … continue
My gosh–the ironies of well-intentioned stewardship (of any human qualities we cherish!). I’ll share the deepest wisdom I was ever given by an inner voice not my own: “This moment is all I give you, so you’d better ‘bring it’. It’s not for you to know the outcome.” And that’s why the choices we make matter. The most recent story you shared was full of humor and laughter, and didn’t that perfectly capture your friend’s response to Bilbo’s devil-may-care encouragement? What you bring to these people/friends is “Real Randy.” I have a hunch that’s why you are asked. You always seem to “bring it.” So go ahead and answer the call. It’s all good.
May we all fare well!
Fabulous. i appreciate the comments that are manifested from your brilliant blog. It is a gift what words bring to us.Ethan Fischer was always funny to me…even if he was serious, he really wasn’t, even though he was…dear people of our lives! i find this connected group in this room powerful. I have a friend who will be 96 in a few days (whatever that means). i visited her recently, it took me a while to get there. She said her age finally caught up with her. She spoke of the many things she enjoyed, her time in the theatre around here, my parents, our friendship (she has many friends). She is still reading, crocheting animals, (she is making a lion now) I think she would love thedevilsgift, but she outlived her computer she got used to. So, i thought i would print up the devils gift and comments every sunday and send to her. Will this work? Will it be okay with you? This lady had a son, who taped to his Fiat dashboard a paper with the typed words not all those who wander are lost.
Contrary to your suggestion, your history makes me think that should I be in a condition which, if I were a Catholic, would suggest a need for last rites, you would be my first call.
Mom would love a good joke but her final journey was accompanied by music because she loved music , singing, choir, cello, piano. Accompanied by a background of familiar voices staying with her -For Mom who lived for music – an unending stream of jazz and classical. Occasionally that right hand would come up to direct the orchestra even when she could no longer talk or sing. Thank you for the latest gift.
The evidence would suggest you have come up short a couple of times for “last” rites for the presumed dying and those waiting for the death. A transitory slip in beliefs known and unknown.
Bringing folks back from the brink (intentionally or accidentally) rises to Joel Osteen megachurch greatness. Thinking here of you trading in that peace, love, and understanding Subaru for a Lamborghini and a perpetual smile. Joel’s grin actually looks it would be painful, but joy is joy.
Rituals, be they living or dying, provide us comfort. Usually when we need them the most.