Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
—John Donne
* * *
I recently read For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway and then watched the two-hour-and-45-minute 1943 movie starring Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman.
Sappy, shallow, ponderous. A classic!
Death is on my mind these days. Suddenly (or so it seems), I have several friends for whom the bell will soon toll. It will, of course, toll for all of us someday. But for those of us of hefty age it will toll sooner than later.
It wasn’t always that way. We didn’t dread the bell. We were young and immortal. Death was an abstraction. We could always count on tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.
No longer.
Today is our tomorrow.
Today we’re much less young. Or to be frank and forthright, we’re much older! Still, we tell ourselves: “Eighty is the new sixty.” But nobody told the Grim Reaper. Neither hair dye, nor facelifts, nor Neutrogena Rapid Wrinkle Repair fools him.
He keeps coming.
But fear not, my friends. Be still. Take heart.
Today is the Third Sunday of Advent.
Today a child will light the third candle on the Advent wreath. It is rose-colored and stands for JOY.
The lector will read from Isaiah: The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with joy and shouting.
Choirs and congregations will sing: Break Forth, O Beauteous Heavenly Light.
And it will.
And yet, the bell will still toll, eventually.
For one friend, soon.
He knows. We know. We’ve entered the valley.
We gather again with him.
We eat. We drink. We talk. We laugh. We cry a little. We say goodbye. We hug.
And the light shines.
Somehow.
* * *
I cannot tell you
how the light comes.
What I know
is that it is more ancient
than imagining.
That it travels
across an astounding expanse
to reach us.
That it loves
searching out
what is hidden
what is lost
what is forgotten
or in peril
or in pain.
I cannot tell you
how the light comes,
but that it does.
That it will.
May we open
and open more
and open still
to the blessed light
that comes.
—Jan Richardson
