Death Next Door
Last week, last Thursday, a neighbor died. She was not an old woman, perhaps 60, mostly housebound due to her ill health and enormous weight. She had lived here since 1970, and I met her on perhaps two or three occasions. Though no longer married (I don't know what happened to her husbands--indications are there was more than one), she was not alone, and had for many years kept boarders in her home, men and women who were down on their luck for one reason or another--she offered them a roof over their heads for a pittance of rent. I met a few of them over the past couple of years, and they all spoke well of her, and seemed to be thankful.
The house itself, sitting on a busy city corner, fell into disrepair. The backyard is a bit like a junkyard, the grass was seldom mowed, and several disabled cars have been seen in the front yard, others in the side driveway. The curtains were closed all around, and life inside was a mystery.
The only member of her family I had met was a nephew, who I think now was perhaps her great-nephew, but that's unclear. When he told me of her death last Thursday night (I think it was Thursday), he invited me over to the house to offer my condolences, so I went. There I met her family, her children, all of whom live in the area. Several daughters, a son, and a single boarder who they seemed to approve of. They had thrown the others out, citing unnamed activities not appropriate for this home.
The family is now in the midst of sorting through the woman's belongings. She was a "hoarder," they said, and over the past two days they've been dragging the woman's possessions out into the front yard to sell. The lawn is now covered with what look to be the contents of a well-stocked thrift shop, untold treasures everywhere.
As I wander through this heap of stuff, certain things catch my eye. An old movie projector from the 60's, the collection of 50's and 60's LP's, the myriad spools of thread, the 13 sewing machines, a collection of Barbie dolls and handmade clothes. It made me think of Dallas Willard talking about the things we treasure, and how what we treasure tells something of who we are, reveals our humanity, our dignity.
And here's the point of telling all this.
It simply struck me again how swiftly our lives will be disassembled after we're gone. Sitting in the midst of our earthly treasures one minute, and the next minute they are in the lawn, sold for a nickel, a quarter, a buck. Strangers pawing over what was no doubt held once in near reverence for the simple joys offered.
The family was estranged from the woman, the distance a remnant of long-gone addictions and the damaging behavior so seared in the minds of the children. They speak respectfully of her, as a woman who was best at reaching out to those in even more desperate circumstances than her own. But there is little sorrow, at least not just now, the giant task of clearing the house bearing down too heavily. They have their families to return to, lives to be lived, and the moment calls for action, not sorrow. Who knows how they are in quiet of the night, remembering, reflecting, wishing it had all been different.
Human beings, honoring as best they know how, getting through it, wading through shame and love alike, wistful, courageous, an odd sort of "best they can do."
A moment of silence for those passing from the planet.
...Thy Kingdom come...
7:54:48 AM
