Who knows what darkness and pain he took to his grave? No one knew he’d even died until someone called in a wellness check. He hadn’t showed up for an annual workplace event from where he’d retired years before.
Not much older than me, Norman (not his real name) hadn’t aged well. Self-medicated, one neighbor called it. Another just put it out there – the man drank a lot. He had other issues as well, loss of mobility from not moving around or exercising.
Whatever emotional pain he had that required self-medication, he’d wave and greet us warmly when we walked past his house or we encountered him at the neighborhood mailbox tree in front of ours. He’d remember some bit of family news from our last encounter and inquire accordingly. He’d ask after our pug. He loved Max. Gave us treats for him, too.
Conversations with Norman were laborious. He processed and talked slowly. Almost as slowly as he walked and moved. Think of videos of sloths. Just about that slow. When he could no longer walk across the street to the mailbox, he’d drive over, taking forever to get in and out of his car at each end.
Even sober, he was unsteady on his feet. Yet somehow, he managed to ride his motorcycle on occasion. Though I never saw him do it, neighbors testified they had. I just couldn’t picture him balancing on his bike. None of us could. Not even those who saw him do it.
When I say he talked slowly, I don’t mean he had a developmental disability. He’d been a psychiatric doctor at the state hospital. We’d listen carefully to what he had to say, hard as it was to follow him. We’d try to catch the direction he was going, so we could stay on the same page. Helps when you want to make conversation.
Norman had lived in the neighborhood longer than just about anyone else. Giant sequoia trees, planted before he’d moved in, shaded his house and gave his front yard what one neighbor called a natural look. Dark and weedy, another neighbor called it.
Although he hadn’t done much to keep up with the exterior of his house, the inside, from what we could tell, looked clean and orderly. But then we never got past his entryway.
After we moved into the neighborhood a couple years ago, Kim and I started a tradition of taking home-baked goodies around to each of our neighbors just before Christmas. We live at the bulbous end of a cul-de-sac. We take treats and knock on all the doors on our street and a few on the next one over. That way we get to connect with all our neighbors, including the shy ones. Not everyone answers their door, but they have ways of thanking us later when they find the treats hung on their doorknob.
That’s how we got to peer into Norman’s darkened living room. We knocked on his door and waited for him to shuffle ever so slowly from the dark recesses of his house to greet us at the front door. He smiled, thanked us, and offered us something in return.
Neighbors really were kind to him. It’s that kind of neighborhood, people looking out for each other, checking on each other, helping out as needed. We’d ask each other if anyone had seen Norman lately. We were all concerned about him, wondering aloud, if he had an accident, would any of us know? He parked his car and motorcycle inside his immaculate garage, so we didn’t always know when he was out.
Between Norman’s awkward conversations and what the neighbors told us, we knew he had no immediate kin, just distant relatives elsewhere. He rarely went out, mostly kept inside his house, never had visitors. And he didn’t keep up with anyone outside of the neighborhood that we knew of, other than that annual event at his old workplace. Apparently.
***
If someone dies, and no one is there to witness it, is there any disturbance in the universe? It’s like that “if a tree falls in the forest and no one hears” kind of question.
I find comfort in what Jesus said about sparrows dying. If a sparrow falls, God notices. God always notices. How much more, then, does God pay attention to what happens with human beings. Jesus says so in Matthew 10:29-31.
Still, it is a sad thought that someone can die alone, and no human know about it. No one to be there with them in their final moments. Was Norman in pain, struggling for help and he couldn’t get to his phone? Did he fall and couldn’t get up? Did he die a slow, painful death? Or did he go peacefully in his sleep? One can only hope it was that last scenario.
What if Norman hadn’t made that reservation to attend the workplace event? What if someone at the event hadn’t noticed or cared that Norman didn’t show up? What if the event date had been much later? How long would it have taken for someone to inquire about Norman?
When we had that heatwave in the Pacific Northwest a couple years ago, the one where it hit 118o and so many trees and plants died, so did a lot of people in their homes without air conditioning – and on the streets in their makeshift shelters. As did an older volunteer at our food pantry. Living by himself with no ac, he had family who were quick to check in on him, just not quick enough. He died before they reached him. I preached his funeral a few days later.
***
While I was in Portland attending a meeting recently, I stepped out to take a call from my wife who had called to tell me that a neighbor had stopped by to say that Norman had died. Alone. The police had come by to do a wellness check after the event people called in.
I was surprised by my own reaction. I’d hardly known Norman, just very casually the past couple of years. Yet I was overcome with sadness, a sadness I couldn’t process right then in that meeting, but which lingered.
Sadness that I didn’t really know the state of his faith. Well, he didn’t express a faith, expressed only polite interest in our expressions of faith, never opened up.
Sadness that Norman was no longer among us. That he wouldn’t be asking about Max anymore.
Sadness that his house will sit empty while his estate is sorted out, however long that takes.
But also, sadness that he died alone.
When I was a boy, it was common for people to gather around the bed of an elderly, dying saint, sing hymns and pray, ushering them into God’s eternal presence. Saints were never alone when they died, adults would say, because the angels themselves would gather around. Odd things are said about angels all the time; this is not one of them.
I sat vigil with my wife’s parents and – long distance – with my own, watching each one transition from this life to the next. With my dad, I’d flown cross-country to see him days before, knowing it would be my last visit. Knowing I would be back very soon for his funeral. My sister, Esther, looked after dad in his closing days.
He’d been very alert up until the final hours, but as he began to fade, I stayed on the zoom call with my sister and watched him lying on the hospital bed in the living room all through the night. Earlier he was active, groaning, moving. Then in the last couple of hours he grew quiet.
Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, Esther said softly, “Daddy’s gone. He’s with Jesus.”
Nowadays, people don’t always have funerals or memorial services or celebrations of life. Not even a picnic with loved ones. The person dies. Maybe, their passing is announced publicly or shared with those who knew them. Maybe not. But then…nothing.
If a person dies and no one stops to take note, does anything change in the universe?
A friend died last year, left behind her husband of nearly 70 years. Their children chose not to have a gathering, just scattered her ashes at some place meaningful to her. But her spouse, health prohibiting, couldn’t join their children for the scattering. I sensed after that he felt bereft of closure.
The elderly care facility where he lives has an annual service for all who have passed away the previous 12 months. Short, generic, with a hymn, a prayer, some words, and projected photos of those who have departed. The husband told me about it, said their children weren’t coming. When I sensed he preferred company, I joined him for the service, then ate and sat with him at the reception following. She had not died alone, and he should not be alone to mourn her.
I’ve resigned myself that no one will call me when this friend passes. That maybe I’ll learn of his death when I try to call him and he doesn’t call back – or I discover his phone’s been disconnected. Then I’ll call the facility and ask them when their next annual memorial service will be held.
Reading again recently through Genesis, I was struck by something I hadn’t noticed before. Abraham had two sons, Ishmael and Isaac. Abraham threw Ishmael and his mother out, and Ishmael is not mentioned again. Until Abraham dies and then we see Ishmael and Isaac together, burying their father.
The same thing happens when Isaac dies. Jacob and Esau, once bitter enemies who’ve reconciled of sorts, more like “I won’t disturb you if you don’t disturb me.” But there they are, together burying their father, Isaac.
Lots of events in the lives of these forebears of Israel and other nations are not mentioned, but precious space in the Scriptures is taken up with noting how people who had issues with each other still took time to look after the dying and deceased.
It’s not about what the dead person feels. If they are in heaven or hell, being missed or remembered is the last of their concerns. If, as some believe, they are just dead and there is no afterlife, well then, they certainly are even less aware.
No, remembrances are for those of us who remain. We honor the dead when they die so as to remind us how meaningful life really is, how meaningful they were – and remain – to us. And to allow the deceased person’s life to speak to us, to teach us that how we live really does count. Norman’s death has taught me that even a solitary neighbor brings meaning to those who live nearby and choose to wave back. It also taught me that I don’t want to die alone.
***
Last Christmas, we knocked again on Norman’s door with our little bag of holiday goodies. True to form, he wanted to give us something in return. So, he went looking for an object among the nicknacks on his shelves. We waited and waited for him to return. Finally, he came back with a ceramic rabbit, the one in the photo. Said it had belonged to his mother. Therefore, it had value to him. He couldn’t give us something with no value. He insisted we take it.
Back at our own house, we set the rabbit on the table in the entryway, right in the middle of our nativity set. One huge rabbit among the wise men, shepherds, and Baby Jesus. Somehow it seemed fitting. When Christmas was over and the nativity set was back in storage, the rabbit remained on the table, there to greet us every time we put our keys away.
We named the rabbit, “Norman.”
For the passages on Abraham and Isaac being buried by their sons, see Genesis 25:9 and 35:29. What thoughts do you have on dying alone or not having a funeral or gathering when someone dies?
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