on april

During my first semester of graduate school, my best friend's father died. She and I had known each other since we were freshmen in high school. Her dad took me to a father-daughter dance or two, told corny jokes, encouraged me to watch Patton once, and was a lovable, kind father.

So when he was diagnosed with cancer and died two months later, I found myself hastily leaving Minnesota for Kansas City. I contacted my professors and work and told them I'd be away for a few days. I asked for prayers for my friend and her family.

When I returned to classes, one of my professors handed me a piece of paper with a quote from Dietrich Bonhoeffer on it:
Nothing can make up for the absence of someone we love.
And it would be wrong to try to find a substitute.
We must simply hold out and see it through.
That sounds very hard at first but at the same time it is a great consolation.
For the gap—as long as it remains unfilled—preserves the bond between us.
It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap.
God does not fill it.
But on the contrary keeps it empty and so helps us to keep alive our former communion with each other even at the cost of pain.

These words of Bonhoeffer, given to me by Fr. Kevin Seasoltz, have resounded in me this month, which began with the death of a good friend of mine. Of my mother's friends, Barb was the one I was closest to. She took me to dinner somewhat regularly, talked to me about boys (nothing like having a lesbian talk to you about boys), asked me about religious life, taught me how to stand up straight (literally; she was a ruthless chiropractor), and made me laugh. She shared with me her wisdom and her humor.

Barb was diagnosed with cancer in September 2011. Her initial prognosis was two weeks to two months. She lived for nineteen—and, for a good portion of that time, she was as okay as one can be when riddled with cancer. She traveled to Florida, was loved and cared for by her partner, took walks almost every day.

When I went home for Easter this year, I knew it would probably be my last opportunity to see Barb. She was rapidly declining, and this time the prognosis would be right. I have been given the gift of knowing quite a few people who have died. Three years ago, after my uncle died, I didn't see this as a gift; I saw it as a curse and a burden. An unfair lot that I was given to bear. I didn't like it. In many ways, I still don't.

On Good Friday, my mother and I were able to spend time with Barb. I expected to have about five minutes with her, to say hello, to tell her I loved her, to be ushered out the door so she could be left in peace. We had ninety minutes to spend with Barb, to hold her hands, to watch her as she slept.

There are many beautiful things about monastic life. One of them is the tradition of sitting with a dying brother or sister. Community members take turns keeping vigil with the dying member so he or she is not alone, so the journey from this life to the next is not a lonely one.

As my mother and I knelt by Barb's bedside, I was reminded of these monastic vigils. I thought too of the veneration of the cross that was taking place in churches all over the world that day. People kneeling and kissing the cross, laying their burdens on it and blessing that which is difficult and ugly. We do this because we know that we cannot have the resurrection without the cross. What would the rising mean without the dying? What would our living mean if it weren't for our dying?

Barb died three days after we saw her. In some ways, I still find it hard to believe that she's no longer here, that we won't get to go to dinner again, that I will never see her saber a bottle of champagne again, that I cannot hear her laugh or receive a text message or see her on Facebook. As I have pondered these misses, I've thought about the gap that Bonhoeffer acknowledges—and I recognize that these gaps from people I have loved and lost really are a blessing.

Which brings me full circle. Fr. Kevin, the one who gave me the quotation, died this past Saturday. He too had cancer. He too was an overwhelming presence, a powerful mind. As I've read some of the memories and tributes to him on PrayTell, I've thought back to my experiences of him as a professor. The overwhelming feeling I have is gratitude for this man who gave me a piece of paper with a few words on it that helped me to get through a patch of grief.

In many ways this month is perfectly bookended—a woman whose love and kindness to me was so big that it has influenced who I have become and a man whose act of kindness was so small that he probably wouldn't have remembered it if I'd mentioned it. I carry with me these gaps, some big and some small, that remind me that loving big and loving small are both profound.